


It's a Long Way to Sovngarde

by Ethomania



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-26
Updated: 2017-06-09
Packaged: 2018-05-16 11:48:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5827489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ethomania/pseuds/Ethomania
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Last Dragonborn is expelled from Apocrypha by Miraak, in his hopes that she'll return being worthy of death, a disaster occurs and the Last Dragonborn dies before she can return and end Miraak's bid for freedom. But, her legacy is far from over- It still sings in the hearts of Skyrim's people. Miraak is destined to return, this is for sure, but the prophecy states that the Last Dragonborn will meet the First... and fate is not easily bartered with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

The battle was long and difficult for both participants. The Last Dragonborn, who called herself Korric, had brought with her Daedric artefacts in an attempt to get the upper hand, which worked for roughly ten minutes before Miraak cast a neutralising spell which turned the artefacts into a normal mace and shield combo. Miraak’s supply of dragon souls were quickly depleted and he was beginning to worry if he had not been prepared enough, but he managed to kick Korric's shield into the slimy depths below, her mace following it not moments after when Miraak Shouted it from her grip.

Korric, unarmed and getting more and more irritated and tired as the battle ran on, was beginning to slip. Every time she advanced and began an attack once more, her fury overcame her skill and Miraak quickly deflected her punches or simply stepped out of the way. Miraak noticed that she was sloppy, clearly having very minimal training in anything other than the sword-and-shield technique. Clumsy on her feet without the reassuring weight of the shield and constantly clenching and unclenching the fist that had formerly been holding the mace, Miraak knew she only had two choices; give up or end the fight as soon as possible. As he ducked out of the way of yet another slow but potentially skull-shattering punch, he tripped her up and continued to assess her skill as she slowly got back up. The armour she wore was built like a tank-- ebony five times thicker than the standard, traditional way of smithing. There were barely any dents in it, but there was one long thin crack that probably went all the way down to the skin. When she'd finally gotten to his altar, her helmet was pristine; now, there was a deep tear from eyebrow to lip where one of his dragons had swiped across her face.

The battle began to wear on; Miraak’s sword was deflecting straight off of Korric’s armour, and all of Korric’s swings were being dodged or parried. Midway during the fight, when Korric was becoming tired and sluggish, she managed to get close enough to him to mash her head into Miraak’s chin. She mostly headbutted his neck, such was the height difference, but he'd breathed out at the the right time and still had enough focus and breath to shout her backwards, his unrelenting force weak as he was suddenly hoarse. Korric stumbled, backpedalled, and then slammed into the ground. Miraak stood, regaining his breath and massaging his throat as she began to stand back up, rolling onto her stomach and slowly getting back onto her feet.

Instead of immediately launching herself back at Miraak, Korric turned her back on him, walked swiftly to the altar, turned her face to the sky and yelled at nothing in particular, her chest full of pent-up rage but her limbs too tired to carry them out. Miraak, still rubbing his neck where it felt like she'd crushed it, turned his head in acknowledgement and watched as she sluggishly kicked the altar in frustration. Perhaps her armour was _too_ heavy.

Throughout the fight, he’d heard little from her aside from the muffled grunts of effort from somewhere behind her ruined helmet and little cries of pain when he'd knocked into her particularly hard. She hadn’t even shouted. Now, when she spoke, he was surprised at the sound; from the way she'd fought he expected some kind of rough, toughened up street kid from a nasty area of a nastier city. Her voice was rough, but not in the way he'd imagined; it sounded as if her throat had been cut several times and some of her vocal cords hadn't linked up in the right order. Aside from the grit, she almost sounded regal. Not a voice befitting of a bounty hunter, he thought, and came to the conclusion that that was why she was so quiet-- intimidation factor. She was extremely short, however, so that cancelled out whatever intimidating attempts she could muster.

“Why can’t I do this? I thought I could do this! I thought I could defeat you!” Korric yelled across the ten or so feet that separated them. She turned away and fell to her knees again, a small sob of frustration betraying her.

“Perhaps it is because you do not have weapons,” Miraak’s voice carried over the distance with practised annunciation. Instead of calming the other Dragonborn it only made her angrier, at which he was not surprised and he steeled himself for another attack, but no amount of preparation could have stopped him from wincing at the thick onslaught of curses and foul language that cascaded from the Last Dragonborn's mouth. When she was done, she shook her head and reached underneath her chin, undoing a buckle and sliding her helmet off of her head. Korric tossed it to the side, her dark skin shiny with sweat and her coarse black hair slicked to her scalp and forehead. Her hair already began peeling itself off of her skin before Miraak's eyes and springing back into their natural curls. "Are you quite finished, dragonborn?" He asked, a smirk in his voice. 

“You’re toying with me, and you’re a fool to think I can’t see it!" Korric turned back to him, her deep orange eyes alight with fury, and she got back to her feet, using the altar as a crutch before she stepped slightly closer towards him. 

“You undermine your expertise. Do not forget, dovahkiin, that the same dragon blood that flows within me burns within you also. Allowing yourself to spiral into these thoughts of self-degradation will prevent you from growing stronger, and then you will never defeat me." 

“I only know two shouts, Miraak. One of them turns me into a ghost and Unrelenting Force isn't strong enough to even knock an empty wicker basket off of a precariously balanced pile of books." Miraak's small humoured smile was unseen behind his mask, so Korric no doubt interpreted his silence as a weary patience. As such, she immediately got to her point, taking yet another step forwards. Despite her slow advance, there was still at least eight feet separating them. "Don’t you see, Miraak? This is as strong as I will get. Who cares if I managed to get into Apocrypha without going insane? Who cares that I managed to get here without dying? I can barely hit you. I can't defeat you. You could knock me off this tower at any time-- this must be so fun for you." 

“Do you not care about the knowledge that Hermaeus Mora offers?” Miraak ignored her jab, tilting his head ever so slightly. Somehow, mystifyingly, his question only stoked her rage. Had she even been two shades paler, he was sure her skin would have mottled with fury. 

“No! I’m already knee-deep in Daedric Princes! All of them! I already have nine Princes waiting for you or something else to kill me so they can put my soul in some deranged trophy room.” For a spare few moments Korric's face relaxed out of it's apparently perpetual scowl as she rubbed her face with both hands. As Miraak spoke, she looked at him through gaps in her fingers.

“Maybe you should think twice before making yourself so valuable, dovahkiin.”

“Well my death is obviously close at hand, isn’t it? If it’s not to you, it’s to the vengeful men and women who’ll rip off my head as soon as I come out of this place. If not to them, to disease or a fatal mistake in a fight against a Dragon Priest. Krosis is proving to be elusive, but I’ll find him,” She paused, tone becoming less aggressive, which once again perked Miraak’s interests. “I’ve been thinking about what the hell I’ll do afterwards a lot lately, what with all this business with you and Mora. I think I’ll shut myself inside a soul gem and wait for somebody to use me to fuel an iron dagger with a terrible enchantment.” Korric shrugged, distracted again. “Gotta start somewhere, I suppose.”

“No soul gem could possibly contain our souls, Korric. And Krosis rests at Shearpoint, nearby Whiterun in the mountain that separates it from Windhelm.” A mutter of melancholic thanks came from Korric, and Miraak noticed that she was not looking at him. He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth-- she'd somehow become relaxed. He advanced very slowly and quietly, changing his voice level appropriately to adjust for the change in distance. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you sound like you _want_ to die. Imagine that- A Dragonborn, wishing for death even with everything yet to accomplish.”

“If you’re me, it gets easier to imagine as time goes by.” Her voice was heavy, something that Miraak wouldn’t have picked up if he was still as far away from her as he had been not seconds before. He continued his advance, even though everything within him told him that Korric knew he was getting closer, or if she didn’t would so very soon.

“So why aren’t you dead yet? If not by the talons of a dragon or some other worthy creature, why not by your own means?” He idly said in genuine curiosity, edging closer.

“I wouldn’t give those bastards in Oblivion the satisfaction.” She looked back up to Miraak as she mumbled, and it was clear she was alarmed at just how close Miraak had gotten. She remained strong, though, squaring her shoulders and pushing her head upwards if only to make the illusion of height. When she spoke again, her voice was firmer. “Nor you or anyone else, for that matter. I see no point in life, but I know I affect much of the world just by being alive. The day I die will be the day Alduin sings my praises, alongside every other dragon. That's not happening any time soon, though, so I have to stick around until then.”

“Wise words for somebody without a weapon.”

Korric stood her ground despite how she was clearly intimidated-- her shoulders were tense and squared, her jaw similar, and she seemed to be trying to swallow her fear. The fact she stood up straight and look him in the eye at all warranted Miraak’s bitter respect. Korric resisted the urge to take a step back, looking up at Miraak’s mask with blazingly orange eyes. She supressed shivers, painfully aware that her chest was unguarded, perhaps not wanting to lose more face than she already had. She could still see the cursed green worm-sword that Miraak had not yet sheathed, but she kept her gaze trained on Miraak's mask.

Miraak was aware of two things; that in her effort to appear strong she was weak and that she wouldn't break her eye contact with him. He was not actually trying to maintain eye contact, but was instead inspecting the armour that made up her torso. He observed that there was a place on her chest, just above where her heart should be, where there were numerous dents and scratches- more so than the actual metal. It was extremely weak there, but not weak enough to fracture under the pressure of his blade.

Instead, he remembered the hairline crack in her armour-- with enough force and a little bit of luck, he could stab her and send her back to Nirn. That he could work with, that he could pierce. That he could win with. The silence grew ever more tense with every passing moment and he knew he had to act soon.

He was still hesitating. The prophecy he had read described the time that the Last Dragonborn came to the Summit would be the time when one of them would die, so he knew that if he wanted to leave Apocrypha the other would have to die. But there was an energy behind Korric’s words, an enthusiasm to continue and a simple need to survive. He got the distinct feeling that Korric was only alive to spite those that wanted her dead, and at that simple thought he was filled with pity.

That was no way to live-- maintaining life only for the satisfaction of knowing that her simple existance made somebody angry, and Miraak reflected upon it sadly. She was too young to be doing any of the things she had long since accomplished, and far too young still to be thinking in depth about the consequences and how to escape them. What she needed was time to weather out her life, defeat Alduin and return to him with control over her actions and a drive to defeat him aside from simple spite, even if it was reasonable enough.

He could wait for a few more years. The Temple must be completed before he even began to think of his return for good and even though it was nearly completed, the liberation of the other Stones had put a significant dent in progress. Plus, almost all of his Cultists were dead or cast to the winds. He needed time to regroup, to begin his return in earnest. In the time she was gone in, he would have time to fully plan around Mora’s omniscience and grow stronger. In her absence, he may overthrow Mora entirely.

It was a risk he was willing to take.

His unarmed hand rose slowly, Miraak making sure she could see it first, before he slowly placed the hand on her shoulder. He felt muscles bunch together in response to his touch, could feel the sudden caution even through half an inch of metal. She then slapped his arm off, took a step back, and Miraak took a deep breath. 

“What are you doing?” She questioned venomously, the bridge of her nose crinkling into a snarl.

“You aren’t ready for this. You will never be ready for this until you understand what it means to be Dragonborn.” Miraak took two quick steps forward, clamped his hand on her shoulder again, and drove the blade home through the hairline crack. 

“What in Oblivion is that supposed to mea-hhk!” Korric didn’t get to finish her sentence- Miraak’s blade had already gone straight through her, the sickly green oil-fest protruding out from her back. She Gasped and Miraak noticed beads of sweat immediately appearing on her forehead as she tried to push him away. He buried the sword up to its hilt in her stomach, twisting it on the way-- that would teach her two things; that failure meant agony and that she needed more than a push to stop him. 

Miraak was counting on his witnesses of her suspension from Apocrypha when she had failed to continue forwards that she would be returned to the mortal realm. Miraak’s felt her panic, felt her disgust at the corruption on the sword immediately worming its way through her abdomen. Korric put her hands on his chest, gasping and holding back screams, trying to push herself off, trying to unskewer herself, and so he moved the hand on her shoulder onto her lower back and once again drove the blade further in. When Miraak felt the thud of the hilt hitting her skin, he twisted, and she screamed, flecks of blackened blood appeared on her lips. She coughed, panting and looked down at the sword, trying to dig her fingers into the worms up the blade to get them out of her stomach, but it was a futile attempt.

He felt Korric’s being beginning to fade from Apocrypha, in the way it had done countless times before when she had failed. She had been strong enough to kill one dragon so far, and had taken up bounty hunting in an attempt to become stronger, this much Miraak knew. He also knew she was barely strong enough, both physically and mentally, in order to fight Seekers and Lurkers. She’d ‘died’ countless times against them, but what had initially struck him was that she returned within a minute to try again.

He decided to add salt to the wound, in an effort to motivate her to come back when she could actually handle the battle; Miraak let go of the sword and held her by the throat, quickly grabbing the sword with his other hand before tossing her halfway across the podium, boosted by a little fus that sent her rolling towards the edge of the altar. She scrabbled to get purchase, but she was weak from the battle and the wound. Korric tumbled off the side of the altar unceremoniously after performing a mildly rude gesture and spitting what looked like black coagulated blood at Miraak; he knew she'd fade back to Nirn before she hit the seething oily mess below. 

He hoped she’d see sense and not immediately return, only to be defeated again. He waited, stood still, for any kind of sign that she was coming back, but he got none.

Satisfied he was alone, he turned to his altar and began to plan for the years to come.


	2. Summoned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miraak discovers the fate of Korric, and Alundril makes her first appearance.

Miraak was becoming impatient. It was almost time for him to return to Nirn, to Tamriel. He’d amassed a huge gathering of followers, one that had entirely eclipsed the non-cultist population of Solstheim and one that had built a city around his temple, which had been long since completed. Mora had ceased contact with him, in fear of Miraak’s growing power to remove souls from bodies even not of the dov or dovahkiin. Miraak was almost as powerful and omniscient as the Daedric Prince himself, and was revered in a similar way all across Tamriel, not just Skyrim.

He speculated that it had been ten to fifteen years since he’d last seen Korric. He’d sought her out in a vision two months after he had sent her back to Nirn, and had seen her at that moment doing battle with a colossal metal automaton, and losing. He’d stuck around and subtly pulled reality’s strings for long enough to see her victory, and then he’d had to return to Apocrypha. Since then, he’d been too busy to focus on anything else.

Now, with his soul almost entirely ready to return to Tamriel on its own (and he suspected that Mora may forcefully remove him from Apocrypha soon), he became curious as to why it was taking Korric so long. Had she moved on? Had she given up? Had she finally carried out what she had longed to do last time they had spoken? It was beginning to irritate Miraak, and he became determined to discover what Korric was doing.

He followed up on it the next time he was summoned by a follower. The mage was holed up in Winterhold’s precious College, performing the ritual on the roof as to not be disturbed by her fellow students. An elf, no less, one of skin that had the same golden hue as how he remembered a sunset to look like. He advised the elf on matters he could care less about, but when the mage attempted to banish her summon he remained, not affected by the pathetically woven spell that any Daedra could have deflected.

“I have not yet been repaid for my service, mortal. In return for knowledge, I seek knowledge.”

“My lord, do you not know all?”

“I know all I need to know, but I seek details on a particular person.” He paused, stepping out of the sloppily drawn chalk circle that was supposed to bind him, much to the mage’s surprise. “Tell me. Do you know of Korric? Does the name invoke anything, whatsoever?”

“My lord, Korric is the Dragonborn who attempted to murder you some years ago, is she not?”

“So you do know her. Tell me- what happened after her attempt?”

“I was too young to remember exactly what happened, my lord, but the stories tell of her being beaten senseless and dragged out of Solstheim after re-emerging from your Book.”

“Do the stories tell of anything else? What has she been doing since then?”

“All accounts say she went to High Hrothgar within a year of her return, where she stayed for some ten years. When she came back down, she had become mute by choice, as the other Greybeards had become. Legends and songs say she could not even speak the tongue of men and mer without the Voice affecting to whom she spoke, such was the power of her Thu'um. She took a husband, who was the only man in all Skyrim who could withstand her Voice.”

“She became powerful, then. Where is she now? I assume she’s doing what she does best- fighting things that make mistakes, doing dastardly deeds with Daedra?”

“… My lord, she died three years ago, when I was sixteen. Two years after the Stormcloaks won the war and year after Alduin was defeated, by all accounts.”

Miraak was dumbstruck. How had she died, even after she’d evidently become far more powerful than an ordinary dragon- more powerful than Alduin? Who could have possibly killed such a potent being, and how had her soul not screamed to him when it had happened? He did recall a pull in his gut, like a thorn in his side at around the same time that must have happened, but no kind of feeling like he should have felt. It was muffled, subdued. His fists clenched and his entire body became taut- the mage, sensing his anger, backed away, a tiny pathetic whimper escaping her.

“…Who killed her? And how?” He strained to keep his voice calm.

“The Thalmor and the Empire, my lord! They were angry because Korric was a Stormcloak general, as was her husband, and that she had ruined almost every plan they had to wrench Skyrim from Ulfric’s rightful hands!”

“How did they kill her?” There was a long pause of silence as Miraak became angrier and the mage became increasingly more fearful for her life, realising her mistake of summoning Miraak instead of an ordinary Daedra. With a shout of anger, Miraak strode forwards and grabbed her by her robes, lifting her off of the stonework and holding her above the drop from the College to the Sea of Ghosts far below. “Tell me, how did she die?!”

“She- she had a home in the mountains between Whiterun and Falkreath, named Pinewatch! They marched on it with almost the entire Legion and whatever Thalmor wanted to go, which was pretty much all of them- They burned it to the ground with her husband and adoptees inside. She escaped the fire because of her dragon blood, and all over Skyrim you could hear her rageful Shouts! She annihilated more than half of the army that had gone to kill her before she was beheaded.” The mage cried over the rising wind, as the energy that encompassed Skyrim responded to Miraak’s rising anger.

“The cowards!” Miraak roared in response, throwing the mage back onto the roof of the College, but he remained stood near the edge. “How dare the elven scum slaughter a dovahkiin like a dog, like an animal, in the middle of the night? Taking an entire army to murder a dovahkiin and a mother when she could have just responded to a simple duel? They knew she would win, so they wasted men trying to pin her down? COWARDS!”

“My lord, did she not try to kill you? Why do you react in this way?” The mage’s voice shook in fear and confusion, breathless from her impact with the frozen stone beneath her. Her robes were smudged with chalk, as she had landed directly inside the summoning circle she had drawn.

“I did not spare her life for her legacy to be sullied in this way! Her destiny, her fate even, was to either win or lose against me in Apocrypha! Not… not to be killed in the night like a criminal by power-hungry cowards! This is not how it was supposed to be. I should have taken her soul when I had the chance!” Miraak lashed out at a nearby bastion of stone that lined the College roof, kicking it harshly. Two bricks went flying into the Sea of Ghosts, the rest of the nearby wall crumbling with them.

Why did he spare her, all those years ago? In his eyes the stretch of time was a blink-- fifteen years was nothing in comparison to how long he'd already been trapped-- but looking back he should have called her back to him, so they could finally battle on equal terms. But what did he want that? Why couldn't he just have killed her then, when she was weak, taken her soul for his and sped up his return? Maybe it was something to do with kindred souls. A thought crossed his mind, but it was gone, and he was refocused as his fingers began to feel somewhat faint.

He looked at his hands, and saw it was nearly time for him to leave or else he risked being weakened. He span around and turned on the mage, forcing his voice to be calm.

“What is your name, elf?” His voice was dark and deep, soaked in dangerous tones.

“My name is Alundril, my lord.”

“I will remember you. I hope you like ash, because you’ll be seeing a damn lot of it when I return.”

And with that, he snapped out of existence once more, to take out his anger on a Seeker in Apocrypha.


	3. Cadre

It had been twenty years since Miraak had re-emerged from Apocrypha, whole and stronger than ever before, and the New Dragon Cult thrived under his guidance. The Empire and the Emperor, weakened by the nasty black coils of corruption set in by Imperial greed and Elven megalomania, was cracking underneath pressure. Like a poorly built dam against a sudden deluge, or a sloppily cast Ward against the breath of an Elder dragon- It would shatter soon enough, and the Cult would flood everywhere it could reach.

It was all going according to plan. Miraak decided to expand his temple even further underground, creating a subterranean metropolis not unlike the fabled ruins of Blackreach, where he knew that Korric had once walked. They got so deep they encountered thick veins of soul crystals, and so much ebony that soon enough the six highest ranking Priests were given pure ebony masks while all the others were given ebony-steel alloy masks, a metal now known as secunda in honour of the particular moon, due to the way it shimmered strangely even without enchantment. The way the metal shimmered, in both colour and intensity, was all dependant on the power of the person wearing the mask.

Whatever ebony or secunda was leftover was forged into new ceremonial armour for the Priests, the same caste system still applying with the different metals. The Priest robes, which had been crimson under Alduin, also changed depending on castes- gold for fifth, green for fourth, red for third, white for second and black for first- those who had black robes also had pure ebony masks and armour.

This way, it was easy for the people to tell who was in charge and who they could or should respond to. Servants operating underneath a black-robed Priest could treat a gold-robed Priest as an equal, but servants operating under a gold-robed Priest were not even allowed to be in the same room as their master if the upper-caste Priests outnumbered the gold-robed Priests.

Even so, all Priests and their retinues were above the general civilians, the common farmer and even the wealthiest merchant. Only those with true loyalty, great skill in their outlet and undying respect for the dragons and Miraak were brought in to even be the lowliest slave in the Priesthood- and once they were in, there was no getting out. As for anybody wishing to become a Priest, they would be individually chosen by Miraak himself, and they would work their way up the caste system.

It was confusing, to say the least, more confusing than the Empire’s monarchy and single Emperor. Luckily enough, Kota didn’t have to worry about the caste system or any type of thing like that, so long as he knew his place. Neither did the rest of the Hatchery-Escortation Brigade. Kota Feim was a lead human-dragon link, part of a social experiment thought up by Paarthurnax, and quite possibly the only human in all of Tamriel who had trust and kinship with dragonkind to rival the black-robed Priests.

Lead by the great matriarch dragon Vahlokendovkonahrik, her order existed to serve the dragons and tend to those wishing to pro-create. While the mother remained at their headquarters, either laying the egg or recovering from the process, a team of humans would take the egg to its father, who would sit and guard the roost while his mate was away. The humans would stay there until the egg hatched, so both the father dragon and the leader of the group could imprint on the child dragon.

After that, the humans would leave, but the leader would visit the roost once a month as the dragon child grew. As such, they needed to know the Dovahzul, and through that, needed to know how to use the Thu’um.

This was not something Kota needed to remind himself, however- He had done the process more than thirty times before and had earned himself the nickname ‘Scalecub’, which he was frequently called by others in his order. In fact, as the nickname was yelled to try and catch his wandering attention, he and a small group of about five others were trudging through the muddy forests of the Rift having just emerged from a mountain pass, tasked with delivering the egg of a very influential Elder dragon who was practically a thing of legend.

“Scalecub! This was the right pass, right?” Said a new initiate to the order, a teenager who had seen the others using it- Kota was certain that the teen didn’t actually know his real name, only Scalecub.

“I’m certain. This is definitely the Rift, and that’s the same Nordic pillar that was there last time.” Kota sighed, gently hiking his backpack further up his shoulders. “Look, Jotaar. I’ve done this run to the Rift at least six times before. I know where I’m going, I know what I’m doing. Go to the back and make sure my bedding is properly secured on the mule before I secure it to you. Well? Go!”

Jotaar looked put out and slightly offended, but he followed his orders and slowed his pace, hanging back to check the two pack-mules were keeping pace. Both mules carried food and water, but one of them also carried all of Kota’s bedding, his woodaxe and various potions.

Even though Kota’s travelling gear was attached to a mule, he still carried a pack. This particular pack shimmered slightly orange, reflecting the light of the setting sun and the flora all around, notifying anybody who would care to look that it was entirely fire-proof. A dead giveaway for an egg-runner… as if the symbol emblazoned in black on the back of the pack wasn’t enough. He also carried more than ten small vials on his belt, each one absolutely disposable but only in a dire situation.

The pack itself bulged outwards, entirely full to the absolute brim. The egg itself was actually half the size of the pack- still huge, still heavy, but it didn’t take up all the space. What was taking up all the space was a tremendous amount of fire salt, which served to both pad the bag and keep the egg warm. Even though the Rift was a warm enough place during the day, everyone in Kota’s cadre except perhaps Jotaar knew that the hold of Autumn would become deathly cold during the night, as frost and fog rolled off of the towering mountains that caged the Rift in. The sun was setting and Kota could already feel the nip of frost in his fingers, chilling his clothes.

The egg on his back kept him warm.

He turned around and lifted his hand up, signalling the group to halt where they stood- some were spread out as far back as ten meters, to help make it less of a bloodbath if anybody should attack. “We stop here for the night,” He called, gritty voice travelling over the moderate distance. “and we’ll be arriving at Lost Tongue tomorrow morning. It’s up this mountain, here. I’ll leave the Pack with Heimskygg while I get firewood- everybody else, set up camp about fifty yards off of the road.”

Heimskygg jogged up when he heard his name, Kota’s woodaxe held in his left hand while his right reached out eagerly. Kota nodded to Heimskygg before swinging off the pack and handing it to him, in exchange for his axe. Kota strode off of the road while the others in his cadre went onto the other side and concealed themselves and their mules. Within half an hour, he had collected more than enough firewood to last the entire night, and made his way back to camp with an armful of wood and axe balanced precariously just on top.

As the night fell and the fire was built around the Pack, set ablaze by Jotaar but untouched by the flame, all six members of the cadre sat about the fire in an uneven circle. Jotaar, Heimskygg, Akka and Gombra- three Nord, one Orc, gathered together on one side of the fire, while Kota and Mah’jid sat on the other. Akka and Gombra sat next to eachother, divided from the men, and the same was for Jotaar and Heimskygg. While the two more lively men drowned themselves in mead and a day’s worth of game, singing in the glory of warriors long dead, the two women quietly discussed various topics they were interested in, both wholly invested in the other’s words.

Mah’jid was quiet, in the way watchers and listeners so often are. His fur was a soft brown, like the owls that occasionally hooted overhead, with belly and face-fur of fur stained yellow from twenty seven long winters of hardship and battles he didn’t want to fight. His hands and feet were entirely black furred, with brighter claws that were almost never shown. His tail swayed softly behind him, his pale yellow eyes reflecting the orange of the fire underneath his pale yellow desert-dweller’s cowl. He watched and he listened, occasionally making comments about the day or the behaviour of their cadre to Kota.

Kota was an entirely different story, and his face was enough to tell more than half of it. He was young, a year or two younger than Mah’jid, older than the two Nord brothers by at least six years, younger than Akka by three years and younger than Gombra by at least sixteen, from what he’d heard of her personal life. His features ought to have been fair in his young age- a defined jaw, brown skin too light for a pure Redguard and so hinted of his racial mix, with ombre eyes like the setting sun.

But, as a man who spent more time with dragons than with people to some outsiders to his Order, he was bound to have scars from his ordeals. His cadre was better off- A scar on the cheek from a dragon taking off, or a burn on the hand from a hatchling not yet bonded with was common, and he knew that Akka and Gombra had both.

No. It was the colossal beige welt across the entirety of his left face and head and some of the right side that gave him his first badge of office, staining his brown skin like it had been taken to with acid or poison. In reality, it had been an injured dragon who had frenzied during a battle. Their opponents- and all of Kota’s old cadre, had been swept away by the tail of the dragon and had been killed by her spikes. Kota’s head had then been taken between the jaws of the dragon. She had begun to chew, but Kota was saved by a passing green-robed Priest and his retinue, who had calmed the dragon and had set about trying to heal his face. His left eye had been completely emaciated, so half of the milky eye was always covered by a paralysed eyelid, and his ear had all but been torn off. No hair grew where he scarred, thus leaving him with half a head of coarse, thickly woven black hair.

And then, of course, was his lower left hand and arm. Torn completely off by an Orcish berserker, who had also happened to be a Blade, when Kota had been tasked with taking a six week old hatchling to the Gildergreen. There hadn’t been a sword or a dagger involved- no weapons aside from the Orc’s fists. Kota hadn’t felt agony like that since, and he doubted that there were many others in the world who had felt such intense pain before. It had been replace by a Dwemer machine, scavenged off of a Sphere by Mah’jid and connected to his body by a nameless monk.

Kota felt happy that his cadre seemed at ease, and happier that he was being talked to. Due to his reputation for becoming severely injured and almost dying once every other week, people were beginning to avoid him in the Order, on the streets of Skyrim and wherever his travels wandered. This only lead to him becoming more and more detached from the general populace, of both man and mer, and becoming more and more uncomfortable on his own in cities. Kota had been warned by Vahlokendovkonahrik that this would happen, that his closeness to the _dovah_ would only drive him away from _mez_. He hadn’t understood back then, but now he did. All too well.

“This one grows weary of watching you become distant. Khajiit thinks he will go to his tent, mm, Kota?” Mah’jid sounded amused, bringing Kota back from his trip down memory lane. Kota looked at him, whatever was left of his face moulded into an expression of surprise, before his eyebrow flattened and a smiled apologetically.

“Sorry, Mah. I was thinking.”

“This one thinks you do too much thinking. Kota listens to his head too often and not those about him, this one also thinks. Kota could learn much by listening.”

“What could I learn, then?”

“That Akka and Gombra snuck off to their tent while you were thinking, and are enjoying themselves.” Mah’jid sounded smug, and Kota’s dark face darkened a little bit more. “And that this one-“

A sudden cracking sound made Mah-jid’s ears flick bolt up-right, and Kota leapt to his feet, swearing.

“This shouldn’t be happening, it wasn’t due for another week! Did we leave it in the fire too long?” His alarm was accentuated by more sudden cracking coming from the fire.

“What is it? What is wrong, Kota?” Mah’jid asked loudly, panicking while Kota scrambled to his feet, ignoring his Khajiit friend entirely.

“Oh, clammy dead hag’s tits, the egg’s about to hatch!”


	4. Iilahiizlok

He dove into the still-blazing fire, batting away burning logs onto the dewy grass with his left hand and digging through white-hot embers with his right. He grabbed onto the hot material of the bag and pulled it out, taking a shower of charcoal and fire-heart embers with him.

He coughed in the burning ash and ignored the digging pain of being burned while Mah-jid stood suddenly, looking down at the sprawled guardian with an air of panic about him.

“Kota! What should Mah-jid do?” The Khajiit’s cry roused the others, the two dishevelled women peeking from behind the cover of their tents and the two groggy Nord brothers looking out from theirs.

“Run up the mountain and get the dragon down here right now! Tell him his egg’s about to hatch!” Mah-jid nodded and hared off through the bushes, his feline vision helping him to find the path in the darkness. Meanwhile, as the rest of his cadre sprung into life, he fished the egg out of its bed of firesalts and rested the boiling hot thing on his lap, while he emptied out the firesalts onto the ground. He grabbed a burning stick from the fire and set the salts ablaze, firmly burying the head-sized egg half-way into the bed. He was panicking too much to care about his non-metal hand.

He sat back on his heels as a roar echoed in the skies above, all but oblivious to the approaching dragon. He quickly assessed where the crack was- on the side, about midway up the golden and knobbly shell on the front facing him, something was pushing at it from the inside. In his right hand he prepared a healing spell to prepare for the worst-case scenario, while the Dwemer machination of his left hand hovered just above the shell. He knew the dragon would be okay- they almost always were. But, this was how it had been done during the first Dragon Cult, and when Alduin had returned there had been no hatches. It had been necessary for Ancient Nords- it was necessary now.

The ground shook as the Elder dragon landed with a mighty thud on the road, and the sound of trees being rent from the earth scraped against his good ear while echoing metallically in his other; a fake ear had been smithed for him, as his actual hearing had not been damaged internally during the initial accident, so all sounds coming from that ear sounded tinny and echoed sharply- a sound he’d long since gotten used to. This however, was an entirely new ordeal, and he found himself trying to cover his metal ear with his shoulder.

“ _Vahlok_! _Joor vahlok_ , where is my child?” Came the deep boom of the Elder dragon behind Kota, who was responsible for the destruction of perfectly good timber. The ground thudded and the vibrations travelled through Kota heavily as the dragon approached from behind swiftly. Kota immediately stood and darted around to the other side of the firesalt blaze before bowing respectfully to the Elder.

“Here, my lord. This came as a surprise- your hatch wasn’t due for another week.” He greeted, still bowed, before kneeling back down and resuming his position of wariness, arms resting mere inches above the grabbing hands of the fire, hands poised and cupped slightly around the front of the egg.

“My hatch is to be premature?”

“I hope not, my lord. Even so, I believe we must be careful.”

“ _Geh._ ” The Elder’s reply was short, and silence between man and _dovah_ fell. The only sounds that accentuated the night were the oblivious insects, the crackles of firesalt and the thin, gritty sounds of scale grating against shell.

A minute passed before any other developments occurred, both the Elder and Kota watching on in poised tension and eagerness. Then, with a small clicking sound, the membrane inside the egg finally tore and a long pale muzzle broke through. It’s elegant maw opened slightly, the small sound coming from within enough to make Kota’s fingers twitch with the effort of keeping composed. He withdrew his fingers slightly, as to not obscure the hatchling’s view of it’s father when it’s entire head emerged.

“I have a daughter!” The Elder whispered in Dovahzul, the edges of his mouth turned up into what Kota imagined was something of a reptilian smile. But, the smile faded when more of the hatchling began to emerge from the egg, still making small noises, quietly telling the trees and the earth that she existed with nothing but small squeaks and growls. Soon, the smile faded from Kota’s face too.

He distinctly remembered that her mother had green scales, bright emerald, like the sun shining through oak leaves on a warm summer’s day. Her father was hunched before him, and Kota could see that even in the warped glow of the fire, his scales were as gold as the setting sun, with stripes of brown. The hatching, however- she was icy, pale like snow with blues and purples running down her spine. She was iridescent, like her mother, but her father’s scales only shone one colour- gold.

This was the egg he was supposed to deliver. He watched the Elder’s mate lay it, on hand in case of complications, and he’d memorized every single detail back in the Order’s headquarters. This was the egg the Elder’s mate had lain.

Female dragons took after their fathers, while male ones took after their mothers. He was looking at a she-dragon who looked nothing like her father, but had definitely been laid by the father’s mate. He came to the conclusion the same time the Elder did, both man and dragon looking up to gaze eachother in the eyes while a mutual understanding wove in the gap between.

“My lord, this is definitely the egg your mate laid. I was there myself.”

“ _Geh_ , I can sense that she is at least her _mother’s_ child.” The Elder sounded melancholy, as the huge dragon edged forwards and silently introduced himself to his mate’s daughter. “No matter. This is my child- I will raise her to be faithful, unlike her _skein_ of a mother.”

In the context of a _skein_ \- scar- being a bad thing, Kota’s eyes immediately narrowed before he forcefully widened them again, sober and fully aware of the respects he mustn’t defile while in a dragon’s presence. The dragon, though, immediately took notice of his own mistake. “Ahh, _krosis_. Forgive me, _joor vahlok_. I forget you are not fully versed in our mannerisms. For a _dovah_ to be scarred, it is a strange, humiliating thing. _Skein_ on _dov_ tell of failures, where _skein_ on _mez_ tell of victory through trials of hardship. Whenever we are together with our child, others will know what she has done, her _poguk_ \- they will feel _krastov._ She will learn, hmm?”

“Ah, _geh_. I understand.” He was quiet as the final bits of shell were shaken off the little hatchling as she revelled in the flames, burying her nose underneath the firesalts. “… Do you wish to name her?”

“ _Geh_ , I do so. Hmm…” The dragon elapsed into a long thought, gazing at the little one intensely as she was wonderfully oblivious. Kota turned around to the four- no, five members of his cadre behind him, Mah’jid looking significantly out of breath while the others looked significantly pale- even Gombra had gone from a healthy evergreen green to a light mint. “Ah. I believe I have a name.”

“Would you like to christen her now?” Kota turned back around, eager to hear the name of the one he’d helped to hatch. He knew that usually the mother should be present for a christening of a name, but he had a distinct feeling the father would not want her there.

“I think I shall. _Kulaas!_ ” He called to the hatchling, who pulled her head from underneath the firesalts and looked up at her ‘father’ expectantly. The words that came next were in the Dovahzul- dragon-tongue, but Kota knew it as a second language and could listen through it, undeterred.

“Daughter, my little princess. Listen to me. You may not be mine by blood, but you are mine by heart, and always will be. The mistakes of your mother will only affect my bond with her, but never with you. Since you are not my blood-kin, though, I cannot give you a name that will reflect that you are. So, instead, I christen you moon-ice-sky! Iilah-iiz-lok! Iilahiizlok! Hear it within you, child, for it is yours to keep and yours to bear until the end of time and being itself!”

Iilahiizlok, small as she was, had an already strong Voice. With it, she rose her head to the twin moons Masser and Secunda, and Shouted her name at the sky, swiftly followed by her proud father whose voice rang across the mountains. Kota, taken up with it all, joined in. He leant back, turned his beaming face to the purple aurora that glittered above them and Shouted alongside the two _dov_ , trying to make his powerful but still mortal Voice heard within that of the Elder. It was his first time Shouting, his first time bellowing Words of Power, and he was proud that it was a name.

It was heard. It was noticed. And, for worse or for better- the people that had heard and noticed began to _talk,_ for it was not the Elder’s call they had noticed, but _Kota’s._


	5. Honeycomb Huck

A day or so later, Kota arrived in Riften. He’d sent the other five of his Order back to Falkreath, where the whole Order and all the operations were stationed, and so was alone. He’d stayed behind to make sure that Iilahiizlok- or as he called her, Hiizlok- would grow to a reasonable size to be able to defend for herself, at least. Right now, she was maybe the same size as a Frostbite Spider, with a wingspan that stretched outwards more than twice her length. Initially Kota had been worried about that, never having seen a wingspan so huge on a hatchling before, but Zinmidrotkrein, the Elder who had taken up responsibility for her and was now her rightful father, assured him that this was often the case on _fo dovah,_ frost dragons.

He’d decided to head into Riften on this particular day because Zinmidrotkrein’s mate, Marzuqethgol was going to return to her roost soon, and Kota had a distinct feeling that today would be that day. Knowing that she’d most likely want to be alone with Hiizlok. So, he’d gone to Riften, to pick up some extra supplies, brimstone and catch a good night’s rest for once in a long time.

Kota sighed, rubbing his eyes as the midday sun shone overhead, skies as blue as the eyes of somebody who had once tried to kill him. The market was absolutely packed today- people from all over Skyrim had been travelling to Riften for Honeycomb Huck day, mostly for the free Black-Briar mead. Of course, due to his notorious scars, he’d been given at least two inches radius of space, but occasionally the odd Nord drunkard or two would come up to him and sling their arms across his shoulders, joking about how he ‘was here to find a lass that wouldn’t care, eh?’.

It was infuriating, but felt strange at the same time. Even if they were drunk and smelled of fermented juniper and honey, it had been a long time since a stranger to him had felt so close and didn’t seem uncomfortable. He sadly reflected on how long it had been since that was not a rare feeling to be had, but the loud music and singing of the festival banished all negative thoughts quite quickly. Soon, though, it became clear that there was neither sack nor grain of brimstone in sight at the market, and a futile trip to the lower walkways showed there was none to be found in the Alchemist’s either.

He trudged back up the wooden steps and back onto the planked streets of Riften, looking about for any sign of a face he knew, when he realised it had suddenly grown quieter. The music was being played at a much lower volume and people were talking in voices more suitable for indoors than outdoors. Then, the sound of a horn bellowing at the front gate make his eyes wide and heart halt for a moment as he put two and two together- a Dragon Priest was about to enter the city!

Knowing he had about five seconds until the Priest was inside, he quickly darted past couples queuing to be wed at the Temple into a shadowy alleyway not too far away from the gate but that also gave him a reasonable view of the market. Damn- he must have missed the first horn while he was under the city. His heart thudded in excitement, his scar throbbing like-minded with the memory of who had healed it. But, alongside the admiration building tension like a wardrum in his chest, his heart beating alongside the rhythm, a coil of dread began to wind through his gut. Kota had no idea what was about to happen, whether or not the Priest was there for good or bad. _Nines_ , he thought just as the final horn blew, holding both hands over his chest in a futile effort to calm his heart- _Talos help the man who the Priests are looking for._

The Riften gate swung open, accentuated by the silence of the festival goers, the harsh sound ringing in the metal of Kota’s marred ear. A small parade of about twenty of the Priest’s retinue lead their Master’s way into the city- all were dressed in mage robes with some draconic element intertwined with it. Kota couldn’t quite make out the colours, as they were amplified by the midday sun, but he had a severe and sickly suspicion as to what they were.

The white robed Priest was mounted bareback on a regal steed with strong shoulders and hind legs, built for pure speed and nothing else. It’s hair was as white as the snow, it’s mane and hooves as silver as the moon. It seemed to glow faintly in the sunlight, and the magicka within Kota surged as he was merely in the steed’s presence. If that wasn’t enough to give it away, the eyes that glowed vivid red told of a horse warped by magic for the needs of it’s rider.

Not uncommon in the Priesthood.

The Priest herself had robes so white they probably would have glowed without the sun there to illuminate them, kept clean by the warding charms that Kota could see had been woven through the fabric in silver silk. The armour that crested her chest, shoulders and back was pure moonstone, while her mask was made of secunda, a faint grey that stood out in the purity of everything else. It was the red energies that danced over the mask’s surface that caught Kota’s attention, but he immediately diverged his attention elsewhere, anywhere but the blood-red enchantment and the suggestion that came with it. He took a deep breath and held it, while the Priest began to speak to the crowd in a voice that betrayed the Nordic woman behind it.

“Our good people, kin or otherwise, it is a pleasure to be present during this… quaint festival of yours. We come seeking a blessing from Mara, so that she may watch over the roosting dragons nearby whom have been gifted with their first hatchling. We seek that all business not pertaining to this be removed from the Temple for the next hour.”

The crowd parted in a direct path to the Temple of Mara, and Kota found himself biting the good side of his lip and trying to bury himself into the stone wall as the Priest walked right past his little alcove. He heard the Temple entrance open and shut, and the festivities resumed at their full volume.

“Blessings of Mara my arse.” He muttered quietly to himself, stepping back into the blinding sunlight while he took to strolling about. “Zinmidrot and Marzu have a lot of Shouting to do, and Nines bless anybody who tries to preach to Mara about it. The Lady of Compassion is not responsible for the lack of such in Arkay and Kynareth’s children-“

“Hey, you!” He heard the call of a Nord and felt a hand on his shoulder, from which he flinched from. He turned quickly to see a Riften Guard perhaps twenty inches behind him. He saw the Guard recoil inwardly at the unbarred sight of Kota’s face, and Kota visibly sagged. He was impressed, however, by the Guard’s vigil and determination to continue.

“There’s not a problem, is there?”

“That is no way to talk about Lady Mara, or the Eldest dragon and his mate in the Hold.”

“You heard me?” Kota was genuinely surprised, but a smile crept over the good part of his dark lips as he recognized the reason. “Ah, I apologize. I can’t hear myself right with my left ear- it should have been a lot quieter.”

“It doesn’t matter on whether or not you could hear it- you still said it. It won’t happen again, understand?” The Guard insisted, and Kota mentally caved in on himself.

“Understood.”

“Good. Glad we straightened that out.” The Guard patted him on the shoulder perhaps ~~a lot~~ a little harder than Kota would have preferred, and turned away. This time, Kota made sure he was whispering the next time he said anything.

“You and me both.”


	6. Blessing of Mara

It had been more than six hours since the Priest had left the Temple and made herself comfortable in the Keep, and after becoming involved in a very uncomfortable situation in the sweaty bar of the Bee and Barb, Kota escaped to the blessed cool air of a sunset’s twilight. He’d still not found any brimstone, and had told Zinmidrot that he would not return without any. He resigned himself to waiting for the Khajiit merchants to swing by with a sack or two of it, and was prepared to rent a room until he got some.

Wanting for a peace of mind far away from the still rowdy streets, lit by candles and the odd magelight kept in place by a nearby soul gem, he headed towards the Temple. He jogged up the steps and entered the Temple quietly, quietly thanking Stendarr for it’s hushed atmosphere. Two priests of Mara wandered aimlessly about the Temple, while their apparent leader was away. Most likely with the Priest, his thoughts wondered, but he shook them away. A citizen of Riften that he could not name was sat in a pew, reading a thick book he recognised as a tome about Miraak. An Altmer priestess of Mara walked quietly over, asking him if he needed assistance.

“Yes, actually. I was wondering if it would be all-right to meditate in front of the statue instead of on the pews; would Mara take offence to that?” He asked, in tones as quiet as how he had been asked. His intentions were honest, and he felt sure it would be alright to do so, but he just wanted to check first.

“I’m sure Lady Mara would love to have one of her children so close. We have cushions and blankets in that cupboard over there if you wish to make yourself more comfortable. We also have incense on the altar, should you need some. ” The priestess motioned towards the cupboard where the cushions were, and Kota nodded appreciatively.

“Thank you, sister.” He added, before making his way over to find a cushion he found suitable and calming enough.

“You are welcome, my child.” The priestess smiled in that heavenly way High Elves do so often, and she returned to her previous business. Kota found a cushion made out of worn, felted fabric that would have been more fitting on a blanket, in the colour of a light orange. The material was made in such a way that it felt warm, even though it obviously hadn’t been touched in a while. Kota, satisfied, closed the cupboard and quietly trod over the well-worn planks to the altar. He placed the cushion just before the altar, summoning some fire to his fingertips to light the incense just to see if it truly did help as people said it did, and made himself comfortable on the cushion. Kota settled into a cross-legged position and remained still as he began to think.

He thought about the day, and the days that had preceded it. His thoughts fell back to the two dragons and their hatchling- what would become of Iilahiizlok? Would the rage of her parents overcome her, and would that cause her to be lost to the winds of Kyne forever or to be consumed by the hate surrounding her? To live her life in spite, locked from seeing the good in the world?

His heart panged in a familiar way, and he felt considerably alarmed that a prickling sensation had begun to pool in his eye while his breath became constricted, his throat suddenly cloyed as if thick with clay. Kota hadn’t cried since he was a child- not even when his face had been torn apart, or his arm torn clean off, he hadn’t so much as sobbed dryly. Now, at the thought of a dragon family being rent by the unwise decisions of one member, his eye was watering. _So this is what my legacy will be_ , he thought, laughing inwardly at himself. _I'm more concerned about the love life of two flying lizards than I am about myself._

He released a large breath, his jaw clenching. No matter how much he tried to make himself feel shame in that, or feel guilty, he couldn’t. Kota realised that if he wanted Iilah to stay safe and happy well into her adult years, he would have to pray for it. He cursed quietly, and began to murmur to the shrine, to the statuette of Lady Mara. Trying to be heard by a divine sounded ridiculous, for why would they listen to him? Then again, they had saved him many times before. Maybe they would help now?

“Lady Mara. I understand I am being a hypocrite- today I was skeptic about your blessing being placed upon a ‘happy’ dragon pair and their hatchling. I continue to believe that your blessing may have been torn already, and that saddens me. I’m asking for your divine wisdom, or perhaps intervention- Iilahiizlok, their daughter, is not Zinmidrotkrein’s blood-born but she _is_ her mother’s, and the father knows this. I fear their pairing is to be damaged, and Iilahiizlok thus so through their anger.

“Please, Lady Mara. I ask you to help them mend, to help them see in eachother what they once did, if they felt any compassion at all. I know the _dov_ do not work as we do, but I think it’s familiar in some way.” He paused, swallowing the phantom clay in his throat that threatened to choke him. “For the sake of Iilahiizlok, if not for the mortals of this realm. And if not for her, some advice on how both Iilah and I should handle the situation I fear may have already come to pass. A sign, if nothing more.”

He waited, quiet with another breath held, but no sign came. Kota sighed again, standing up and bowing curtly to the shrine. Just as he bent to retrieve the cushion however, a deafening roar shook the bones of the Temple and rang through his metal ear like the screams of pain he’d heard long ago. He straightened immediately, and he looked around to notice the book-reader was no longer present. Kota span around, bowing again to the shrine with a renewed purpose. “Thank you, Lady Mara!”

With that, he rushed out of the door with the speed of a rabid horker trying to catch up to a slaughterfish on skooma. He closed the door behind him while he looked up at the sky, lit with a green aurora while the lone Secunda watched from her divine perch. He squinted up at the sky, and his heart thudded in renewed terror as he watched Marzuqethgol swoop above overhead, flying so low to the city that thatch was dislodged from roofs as her downbeats graced the streets of Riften.

“ _Joor vahlok! Hi vax, joor vahlok, dii rax waa hi!_ ”

“Divines bless us!” Kota heard Grelka cry from her stall, and he rushed down the stairs and skidded down onto the market square, where many heads were turned to the skies in fear.

“Grelka! I need a shield and a dagger!”

“Now is not the time! Besides, even if I-“

“Grelka, I have two thousand gold septims in my purse. They’re all yours if you give me a shield and a dagger!”

Grelka didn’t hesitate. She reached underneath her stall and pulled out a steel shield and a small Dwemer dagger. The crowd began to edge away from the scene, forming a curious but terrified semicircle. Kota cut his coinpurse away from his belt and dropped it onto Grelka’s stand with the dagger before using the dagger to carve a rudimentary enchantment table onto Grelka’s stand, chanting spells recited from scrolls as he went, taking a deep breath when he finished the last scratch and the entire thing began to glow blue. He slammed the dagger down onto the table, making onlookers jump from the sudden crack, and more fearful cries rose up from the gathering crowd as Marzugethgol swooped back down across the market square, roaring like the heavens above were falling to Nirn.

Kota swore loudly and without control. He was barely heard above those of the crowd, but he continued to mutter curses while he readied various warding and resisting enchantments and thrust them upon the shield. Various soul gems on a nearby Dunmer’s stall and in Kota’s own pockets shattered, turning into alchemical dust, as the souls within them were finally given purpose.

Finally, Kota cast ebonyflesh on himself, quickly enchanted his left boot to help keep his stamina up and enchanted his wood-and-twine bracelet to help keep his arm strong enough to block damage. He didn’t hear the cries of shock from the crowd or the demand for context from none other than the Priest herself, who was stood before the Keep and had watched the whole spectacle - who had also no doubt heard every curse Kota had spouted. He gripped the shield in his left hand and ran to the city gates, shoving people out of his way. He used Telekinesis to throw the gates open before he even got to them, and he charged out onto the road.

“HEY! Marzugethgol, I’m here! I’m over here, I’m out of the city!” He bellowed to a miscellaneous point in the sky, but he was heard. The dragon’s response was a bellow more than three times as loud as it had been, and from out of nowhere or perhaps Oblivion itself, Marzugethgol plummeted onto the road, shaking the ground and snarling wildly at Kota.

“ _Hi gral fos mu lost! Hi kuz mok nol zey!_ ” The she-dragon proclaimed. _You ruined what we had! You took him from me!_ She accentuated her accusation with a blast of fire, her shriek of _yol_ louder and more enraged than anything he had ever heard. He rose his shield to protect his head and chest, but his legs were less inclined to be not on fire. He faintly heart a clamour behind him, perhaps about fifty yards, but he was too preoccupied by being on fire to focus on that.

“ _Nid_! Marzugethgol, you drove him away!” He cried, his entire bottom half on fire despite his spell- It was not damaging him as perhaps it should have been, but it was so painful. He rolled to the left and quickly darted behind her, giving him a brief respite from her wrath. “You mated with the _fo dovah_ , and he knew! It tore him apart. I took nothing from you!”

“Pathetic _joor_ , you have no idea of the ways of the _dovah_!” She screeched, before Shouting at him again, this time the familiar taste of Unrelenting Force. Kota’s shield mashed into his nose, thankfully most of the damage being directed at the eye that didn’t work anyway. His shield was not enough to protect him from the full force of a dragon’s _Fus Ro Dah_. Then again, what was? Kota went flying backwards, landing with a thud on his back and skidding for a good few meters, before pulling to a halt. Breathless, his mouth tainted with the taste of copper and a sour dusty taste he recognised as _dah_ coating his tongue _,_ he rolled onto his stomach and stood up, certain something in his chest had broken. The ground shuddered as Marzugethgol closed in on him. “You were there with my _mon_ when I should have been there, and you imprinted upon her with him! She is my daughter, not yours or his!” 

“ _Aav voth fo dovah lost hin tozein,_ Marzuqethgol _! Zu'u nunon Zaan voth_ Zinmidrotkrein!” He retorted harshly, spitting blood onto the back of his shield as he reminded Marzugethgol of her mistake in mating dishonestly with somebody who wasn’t actually her mate. She was silent for a moment, stunned at his use of full _Dovahzul_ and how he had acted, and was expectedly overcome with absolute fury.

Before she could act on her expression and the promise in her eyes, a roar from above announced the arrival of Zinmidrotkrein. Marzugethgol barely had time to look up before the Elder plummeted from the air directly onto her back, not landing with enough force to break but enough force to stun.

“ _Fey hond nol mok!_ ” Zinmidrotkrein roared in Marzugethgol’s ear, before taking off once more. _Stay away from him!_ Marzugethgol followed him into the sky, and Kota was helpless but to watch as Mara allowed the two dragons rend to eachother. “ _Hi vax! Banaak do dovah! Hi grut dii ov,_ Marzuqethgol _!”_

The outrageous insult hurled from Zinmidrotkrein’s maw shook the trees and the very air around Riften shuddered. The Elder was winning- hovering expertly in midair while his adversary tried to get close to him only to earn a severe slice across the belly or shoulder. This continued for very little time- Kota saw Marzugethgol give up midair and had to rapidly backpedal to avoid being crushed by ten tonnes of dragon. The she-dragon was weak, but still alive, clearly beginning to regret her wanton choices. Zinmidrotkrein once again landed ontop of her, but with none of the mercy he had shown her before. Both of her wings snapped, and she screamed at the top of her draconic lungs.

“Zinmidrotkrein…!” She cried, only to be harshly snarled at. Kota dropped his shield and put both hands to his mouth to stifle a cry of pity, thankful his limbs were frozen in fear since all of his instincts were telling him to leap forwards and end the fight. _Mara must have wanted this,_ he realised with a cold pit forming in his stomach. _Besides, it would be a mercy to kill her now- She’s in so much pain._

 _“Nid! Nahkriin! Aal skein nahpok hin vrii ahrk jusk vaaz hin viing! Dii rax wah hi!”_ Zinmidrotkrein roared- _My teeth to your neck!_ Not a second later, his head dove down and his maw clamped around her neck. She struggled for a moment, but the Elder twisted her neck to the left and a sickening crack signified her end. Zinmidrot, breathing heavily from the exertion of the fight, slowly separated himself from the body of his former mate, while Kota busied himself with devouring a deluge of stamina and health potions, holding a glowing hand above the severe burns on his legs. Within a few moments, he felt reinvigorated and back in shape, but now he had another scar across his face and more on his legs.

“ _Krosis, joor vahlok, zu’u_ … wait… what is happening?” Zinmidrot sounded confused, and then a low growl escaped him. “ _Nid, joor vahlok,_ what are you doing?!”

Kota, throat still thick from seeing a dead dragon before him like this, a sight he’d never seen before, suddenly realised that the smell of burning flesh was flooding the air. He quickly checked himself, but the glow in the corner of his vision drew his gaze off of himself and onto Marzugethgol’s corpse. It was burning, fading into ash that spiralled upwards to Secunda, smouldering and glowing as her skin and scales themselves faded into the night.

Kota began backing away, suddenly feeling very sick, very lightheaded and filled with some kind of feeling he’d never felt before that welled in his chest and wanted to explode from him. Strands of light slowly began to weave from Marzugethgol’s corpse, and began to spiral in his direction. Kota almost retched once, then the venison stew from the Bee and Barb decided it hated Kota’s stomach and excommunicated itself. He stumbled away from the bush where he’d vomited, having been entirely unaware that the amber threads of light had suddenly charged towards him and were now winding themselves around and through his body.

The feeling in his chest suddenly clicked into place, and it spread like a warmth through his body and fought to be expelled through his throat. He refused it, stumbling from the effort, gripping his chest in disbelief. What in the name of Kyne was happening to him? A memory surged through him, clouding his vision and silencing his mouth, of something- of pain, of suffering, of regret. He realised that the memory was not only Marzuqethgol's final moments, but that something within him had the exact same one, even though he had never felt suffering like that before in his life. He couldn't tell where it was or who it had come from, but it was there. Suddenly the feeling soothed and a gentle hum, that of a woman, filled him with warmth and peace. It was achingly familiar, and even though he could not hear it he would feel it in his mind and heart. 

Zinmidrotkein felt a familiar presence, that of a third dragon, and he swung his head up to the sky, read to explain, but he saw nothing and heard less. He then thought of Iilahiizlok, but she was nowhere nearby. Then, there as a hum, one which he felt instead of heard, and he recognised it immediately. He turned to Kota, teeth bared in confusion, and ventured a question. “Korric?  _Dovahkiin_?”

The golden light faded from Kota's vision, alongside the hum, whose heavenly tones weaving a lullaby out of silk made one final note before fading entirely, leaving an aching chasm of a memory Kota didn't even know he had. He felt fuzzy, but soon he regained his coniousness and footing and took quick note of his surroundings. The last things Kota saw of the Riften gates were the look of confoundment on the old dovah’s face, and a certain white-robed Priest running towards him from two hundred or so yards away. Kota stumbled backwards, turned to the forest, and he ran.


	7. Chapter 7

Zinmidrotkrein flew back to Lost Tongue Overlook later that night, shaken and confused. The joor vahlok, mortal guardian, had devoured his mate’s soul. Unwillingly. The few nights before, when the human had Shouted with him, he had tasted the tang of something familiar, but he brushed it off, merely theorising that all humans, when Shouting, sounded like that. When he’d suggested it to Marzuqethgol, her soul now writhing somewhere within the human, she had merely said that ‘perhaps it is because he has been taught how to be a dragon’s father by Vahlokendovkonahrik, blasphemous that it may be.’.

As he thought back on her words, he tasted hatred. She had let her dominion over man go to her head, and it had inflated her ego enough to attack a town. Had she not heard of what Dragonborn could do? Of what men could achieve, even without dragon souls? The Blades, even though their disgraceful existence was dwindling, were still formidable, and that soul-tearing blade they had once owned was enough to drive a dragon willingly to Dragonsreach and be captivated- Zinmidrotkrein had felt its bite before, and he felt certain the wound still felt sour.

A heavy sigh passed through his lungs as he circled over his roost before landing on his ceremonial Wall. He looked down at the bed of glowing firesalts, and saw Iilahiizlok, already the size of two men, curled about another dark shape. Zinmidrot’s eyes were tired, and he dismissed it as nothing more than a tree trunk from the forests that swam below them, before he realised the shape was too thick to be any of the thin trees in the area.

Zinmidrotkrein looked closer, gleaming orange eyes biting through the darkness of midnight, and saw that she shape was human. Another search found that its arm was dreadfully out of proportion- it was made of metal, and as gold as his own scales.

The Dragonborn had fled the Elder and Riften, and had taken shelter under the protective wing of his daughter. Even in her sleep, her grip about him tightened and a wing stretched out, covering both man and dragon from the prying eyes of the stars and moons above. Zinmidrotkrein also felt the familiar presence of Marzuqethgol, and it writhed within the human’s chest as he imagined it would do. How painful must that be for the human who slept beneath him? To have something so huge as a dragon, even in soul form, to be trapped inside his chest?

The Elder dragon sighed again, and settled himself down to a well-earned night’s rest, the wounds from his battle resigning themselves to a slow healing process. He and the Dragonborn would talk in the morning- as would he and his daughter.

Zinmidrotkrein stirred from his sleep as he heard shuffling underneath him. The upper lid of his left eye slid open while the bottom lid stayed closed, enough to dull his eye’s glow but enough to see through. When he assessed that he was undetected, both of his eyes opened and he peered down at the Dragonborn with intent curiosity. Kota was quietly moving about, finding his belongings and stuffing them into his backpack.

“Going somewhere, vahlok?” His deep voice rumbled quietly, but it was still enough for Kota to be startled. As the early morning coolness spread itself thickly across his mountain perch and as mist rolled about in the forested valley below, the sun shone through thin white clouds and reflected dully off of the Elder’s scales, his eyes giving enough impression of his colours alone.

“I have to leave this place. This Hold. I’ll head back to Falkreath, my lady Vahlokendov will know what to do.” His voice shook with sorrow and was heavy with guilt, even though its hushed tones were enough to make even the dovah struggle to hear it.

“Is that truly wise, to go back to your Sanctuary of Kyne?” Zinmidrot’s voice rose slightly, and the sound grated upon Kota’s ear. “The Priests will know where you came from, Kota of Vahlokendovkonahrik. They will be waiting for you there, and along the roads to your destination. It is safer for you here, with Iilahiizlok and myself.”

“Who is to say they will recognise me?” He muttered, clear that it may be that he knew it was true.

“Your arm and your _skein_ will betray you- I know for sure the white Priest knows your face and wounds. She will lead the search for you, as she had witnessed what happened last night. No doubt your fellow men will sell their tongues to her, too, for they do not know of your innocence.”

“Innocence? What is that?” He chuckled, the sound severe, sickened by himself and what had indeed occurred. “No such thing as innocence when I stole the soul of a hatchling’s mother, of the mate to Zinmidrotkrein. I have committed a crime against Miraak, and the Dragon Cult, and the dragons.”

“ _Nid!_ Your blood is not a crime! Your soul is not a crime! Existence cannot be helped. Your mortality is what makes you human, even if it is dragonfire that runs through your veins. It is only by some sick twist of fate that you are Dovahkiin, not by your own actions!”

“I must have done something, ‘Krein! I must have done something to make the Nine angry with me. This is a curse, nothing more and nothing less.” Kota sounded sorrowed as he protested. Krein could feel that Kota believed him, that Kota knew that being Dragonborn wasn’t his own fault, but it was his loyalty and the Dragon Cult talking while he insisted it was. Krein softened, slowly crawling off of the Wall upon which he was perched and down onto the altar where Kota stood.

“You have done nothing to make the Nine angry. If anything, the Nine are in your favour, and always have been. The Gods hear you whenever you call to them, as they do when their priests call, and the Gods listen to you. This is a gift, given to you by Akatosh himself. You can speak with the power of dov, and you can do it flawlessly.”

“But what of the Priests? What will I do when they find me? They will not listen, not to me, and they’ll drag me to Solstheim by the neck to be executed.” Kota visibly caved in, wrapping both arms around his own chest as if to hold himself together.

“If they will not listen to you, they will listen to me, and if they even try to kill you when you have already bonded with Iilahiizlok, I will bite off their heads!” Krein chuckled, with the goal of eliciting a smile from the human before him. Kota smiled softly, bittersweet and warped by his scar, before it vanished again.

“What’ll happen if Miraak himself gets involved?” His tone was low, and the question sobered Zinmidrotkrein. It was quiet, save for the breathing of the Elder.

“Then I will defend you and my daughter until my dying breath, and I’m sure she would do so too.” The Elder paused, humming to himself in thought. “I suppose she’s yours too, since you bonded with her. Ha! A man being a father of a dragon. What a strange thing.” He grinned toothily, earning another smile from Kota. This time, the smile did not fade.

“ _Geh_. Strange thing indeed.” Kota hesitated, before fondly patting Zinmidrotkrein on the jaw. “Thank you, ‘Krein. This is a kindness I will repay as soon as this is all over."

"No need for that, Dovahkiin. It is an act of one _dovah_ to another- simple."

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first time in a year or so I've updated with a chapter. Looking back, even through the past edits, the other chapters are kind of awkward. I'm re-enchanted with the game now, so expect lots more where this has come from. (28/05/2017)

The rest of the day was taken up by looking after Iilah. From the moment of her birth she had already quadrupled in size, and was now half the size of her father. Her scales had since hardened and already a milky film was forming over the iridescence, dulling the shine. Instead of the dark blue, greys and other colours common in the frost strain of dragons, Iilah was turning faintly green, too-- her underbelly was as pale as the snow, yes, and shined as such, but the scales and spines lining her back were the colour of a tropical sea, and slightly darker and more blue translucent webbing threaded itself between the spines, thin and flimsy. It occurred to Kota that, maybe when she next shed her skin, the webbing would go with it and so would the soft flesh covering over the spines themselves, revealing the bone beneath. That would be painful, and combined with her first shedding (which would itch, he knew), Kota knew it would be maddening. He estimated the first shed would happen in about a week, when she was almost fully grown. He couldn't wait-- by then, she would know how to harness the Thu'um with her voice, and even though he knew she would test it on him as well as Zinmidrotkrein, Kota also knew that he would be able to decently spar with her, however limited his abilities may be.

Zinmidrotkrein was away, hunting for food for the three of them near the pass in the mountains. Iilah was hunting butterflies and bugs while Kota, having spent a good half of the morning climbing up it, was sat on the very top of the Word Wall, watching her out of the corner of his eye while sketching his view. In his backpack he always carried a small journal, always one which he'd either made himself or had someone else make. This one was one he'd commissioned; an inch thick with thick, luxurious paper perfect for paints and charcoal, with black leather binding decorated in embossed golden swirls of the nordic tradition. The front cover also held a large number-- a beautiful, stylized nordic representation of the number eight, complete with whorls and pattern. This was the eighth such book he owned, and was by far the most beautiful. It had cost him eight month's of wages, but in his mind's eye there was little else worth spending septims on. After all, he didn't visit the 'ladies of the night' like some of the others of his order did, and he was almost always fed by kindly strangers or passers-by (except for that one time, of course, wherein he unlawfully raided a farm for a few leeks and potatoes). The only other things he ever spent money on were robes, configurations to his dwemer-arm and the books; oh the hundreds of books! Kota supposed he'd devoured the words in thousands upon thousands of books by now; spell books, stories, works of historical importance, the mythic dawn commentaries... nothing, not even stigma or superstition, held him from reading any tome. He would only be satisfied when the Oghma Infinium became known to him. 

He had, of course, read the books about the Last Dragonborn. Kota supposed with humour and slight salt that all the ones he'd read so far would have to be revised, because Korric M'Kai was not the Last Dragonborn at all. From what he'd read, she'd started off in Hammerfell as a street urchin; some books named her as an illegitimate child of a visiting high elf noble and a redguard servant, and a rare few more reversed that and said that a beautiful redguard court member had been seduced by a high elf rebel fugitive who was hiding from the Thalmor. In Kota's eyes, it mattered very little who had sired Korric. The Dragonborn had grown up in the streets of Stros M'kai, taking whatever she could find that wasn't nailed down; she had been in and out of prison six times before the nobility of Hammerfell banished her from the borders of the country entirely. Tired, hungry and seeking work, she passed into Cyrodiil and tried her hand at bounty hunting. During a raid, she'd had her throat cut by a thief-competitor (whom had been fighting alongside her for years and whom she trusted, dearly; her first true friend) and she had barely survived, being brought back from the brink by passing Vigilants of Stendarr. Determined to get revenge, she'd immediately headed for Skyrim where she knew her former friend would be headed, but was caught at the border by Imperial Soldiers who mistook her as a Stormcloak. She'd then escaped when Alduin had returned, gone straight to Whiterun, murdered the traitor and was imprisoned immediately, but was then recruited by the court wizard to go and fetch a tablet from a barrow in the hold. She went, came back with the tablet within a day, and then was set upon by a dragon on her way out of the city. She killed it, discovered she was dragonborn, and within a week was on the boat to Solstheim after being attacked by some of The Master's early delegates, furious that anyone would dare attack her from so far away. 

It was strange, he thought. Most of the information had been sold to the authors by people Korric had once met or knew. Some of it actually came from a direct source; one of Korric's own journals, found in Solstheim under the protection of the Skaal. The extracts and commentaries weren't popular, but there were very few of them, and Kota had searched for weeks all around Skyrim just for one copy. Despite being brought up as a street rat, Korric was surprisingly masterful with her words; she detailed her feelings, thoughts and commentaries about the world around her. At some points she used the journals to vent her frustrations, or sadnesses, or happiness; very few people, she claimed, would have bothered to listen, and they were almost never with her. Several names were repetitively mentioned-- a certain Teldryn Sero, who was known for his 'whipcrack wit and skill with fire'; Marcurio of Riften, whom had died at her side in a fierce battle with the embodiment of a daedric lord; Lydia of Whiterun, who had renounced her status as her housecarl after the two had had a nasty argument. There were more names, but those three stuck in Kota's mind. Where was Teldryn now? Where was Marcurio buried? Lydia, also, where was she? 

Kota had stopped in his sketch to think, and had unfortunately also missed Iilah catching, eating and then spitting out the mush of a butterfly. Now, however, it was almost night, and there were more lunar moths than there were butterflies. A torchbug landed on his notebook, its thorax pulsing as it tried to find a mate, and Kota benevolently brushed it away. He gently closed his notebook and wrapped it in it's silk case, before finding it length and width with leather strips. He also tied his 'charquil' to it; an ingenious invention developed by mages, who wanted the precise, small lines given by quills but also the softer, erasable quality of charcoal. It was, essentially, a long and thin charcoal stick, encased with wood or metal or even cloth to prevent the charcoal getting on you and to provide a firmer grip. He stuffed it inside his robes, before taking a deep breath and pushing himself off the top of the Word Wall, landing with a roll. He stumbled when he tried to stand, since he'd been much too ambitious, and so fell back onto his behind. 

Kota laughed at himself, glad of the distraction, and Iilah laughed with him in her strange, whistling way. In the dying light of the sun, her scales were darker but they reflected light as easily as a mirror. He got himself back to his feet, brushed himself off, and scratched a waiting Iilah under the chin. She leant into it and he heard her thudding one of her back legs up and down while her tail swung side to side. When she grew older, she would grow to be indifferent to it, then to dislike, then to hate it. Older dragons had thicker scales and human fingers did very little to aid them with scale mites or the dreaded shedding seasons, so they viewed it as a waste of time. For now, though, it was like scratching a cat or a dog under the chin. 

"You seem sad," Iilahiizlok said in the language of the dragons-- she had not yet been taught human words. 

"I am not sad," Kota replied, scratching a little harder which earned him a little purr of delight, "I'm just thinking."

"This morning when you slept, father told me what happened." Iilah said, and she paused, as if wanting Kota to confirm what she'd been told. In his experience, however limited it may be, Zinmidrotkrein had never, not once, told a lie. Therefore, he knew what Iilah had been told was the truth and nothing other than such. He sighed, ran his metal hand through his hair, and nodded gently. 

"Yes, what he told you was true. Marzuqethgol was going to attack Riften because I had imprinted upon you with lord Zinmidrotkrein. She must have known that this was what was meant to happen, as is per the code of my order, but she was still angry with me. I will be forever thankful to your father for saving my life."

"Father said that... ah, I forgot..." She said, humming a deep purr before clicking her tongue as she remembered, "that you 'absorbed her power from her body when she died'. What does that mean?" 

"Well, Iilahiizlok," Kota replied as he tried desperately to think of a better way to word it without saying 'I ate her soul'. He sighed, "all things have souls. You have a soul, I have a soul, even the deer and bears that roam below us have souls. Animals of every kind have white souls. All things sentient, like mer and men, have black souls. All of these souls can be captured in gems, the size of the gem depending on the power of the creature. However, dragon souls are completely different- after a dragon has died, their soul stays with them in death and cannot be captured by any gem or weapon. When you die, it hurts for a moment but then you are asleep for a very long time, maybe forever, until the Gods or another dragon wakes you up and gives you back your scales.

"Sometimes, very rarely, a thing that's supposed to have a black soul is born with the soul of a dragon," Kota continued, and Iilah nodded as she took it all in. She was curious by nature and was hungry for knowledge about the world around her. Kota admired that. "When that happens, you get a being known as a Dragonborn. They can be any kind of human, any kind of elf-- but what really matters is the soul. Because they do not know how to use the Thu'um by nature like you and your father do, they must absorb the knowledge through others. Only the masters of the Thu'um-- the Greybeards and other dragons-- can provide that kind of knowledge. When dragons die, the Dragonborn immediately, without choice, devours their soul and thus so their knowledge, because the Words they know are burning at the backs of their minds and the words desperately want to be said. I did not know before today, but I am a Dragonborn, and I know many words, little princess. It will be a long time before all of them are said."

Kota and Iilah had long since sat down by then and the sky was a deep plum, with a few brave stars already blinking into view. All around them were torchbugs and lunar moths, glowing sweetly in the night sky. Iilah quietly digested the information while birds and bugs began to become quiet, settling down to sleep. Kota himself was fairly tired, even if he'd done very little the whole day, and he knew that he'd have to light a fire soon. Iilah thought for a minute more while Kota busied himself with trying to catch a torchbug, which he succeeded at and let go. Finally, Iilah spoke. 

"Will the words you know make you kill father? Or me?" 

"No, little princess, not a chance. I would die before that would happen." He reassured, and she thought for a moment more. Oh, what a wise she-dragon she would grow up to be!

"Marzuqethgol deserved it. She was malicious and cruel and set seeds of chaos because she enjoyed having to tell lies. She was wicked to deceive my father. She was wicked to pretend she did not know of your order's rules. Whatever knowledge she held in her soul, it is better with you than it was with her. You are good, and honest, and kind and strong. I'm certain she was jealous of you." Iilahiizlok said softly but with conviction, with wisdom far beyond her age and a kindness beyond her time. Kota suddenly felt immensely grateful and like a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. The feelings lifted him so much that he couldn't help but sob, with small but happy tears springing to his eyes. Iilah's pale, vibrantly blue eyes widened and she instantly moved to comfort him, laying her head upon his shoulder before rubbing her scaled cheeks against him as Kota wrapped his arms around her neck, scratching gently at the base of her spines. "Oh, Kota, what have I done? Have I saddened you?"

"No, not at all, princess. You've just made me very happy, that's all."

"Do all men and mer cry when they're happy?" She asked, deeply perplexed, and Kota laughed a teary chuckle. 

"Some of us do, yes."

"Strange thing," She said, endearingly, and quietly said, "I don't think 'Kota' suits you. Or Vahlok, since father says that name is already taken, and certainly not 'joor'. Besides, you're more of a keeper, a friend among dragons. Father trusts you."

"Oh?" Kota said as the last light died, and as he began to dig in his robes for some tinder to start a fire with. "What would you call me instead, then?"

"Hm. I shall wait for father to return, so we can name you together and to see what he thinks." 

As if by magic, heavy wingbeats from a dragon, one that had previously been cruising silently towards them from lower in the valley, beat down upon the two friends, and they looked up to see Zinmidrotkrein back from the hunt with three deer in his talons. He dropped the deer and by the time he had circled back to land, Iilah was flapping her wings up and down excitedly while Kota, with a snap of his fingers, lit last night's campfire ablaze. Iilah sneezed them, at the sudden presence of the dusty smell of fire magic, but she was simply too excited to keep quiet. She charged Zinmidrotkrein as soon as he landed, all while Kota (with exactly none of the grace of a butcher) relieved one deer of its hind leg, cut off all the leg below the meaty flank, removed the pelt from the part he had (messily, too) and had since speared it with a longsword he'd found in a nearby chest and was slowly turning it over the fire, roasting it carefully. The smell was practically intoxicating, and Iilah hadn't realised how hungry she really was. She leapt at the deer which Kota had removed a leg from and started tearing at it ravenously, while Zinmidrotkrein carefully but very quickly devoured his own two deer. All in all, nothing was left behind, and the two dragons greeted each other in their own brilliant, adoringly affectionate way while Kota finished cooking and finally ate his food. As soon as he was done, Iilahiizlok conveyed her idea to Zinmidrotkrein, who laughed in his own strange way and turned to Kota. 

"Yes, child, I agree," he said, still talking to his daughter, and Kota sat up, spinning himself around to face them. "But we must first ask him; he already has a name and he may like it."

"Are you giving me a new name?" Kota questioned, and suddenly his heart leapt in excitement as he said "Are you giving me a _dragon_ name?"

"It is what you deserve, and more. When we name you, it will be bound to your soul. In the same way you know us, and the same way we will hear you calling us from across Tamriel, we will know you, and you will hear us-- and anyone else calling you-- from across Tamriel." Zinmidrotkrein said, and Kota leapt to his feet with his hands flying to his mouth, tears once again filling his eyes. A dragon name! A _dov-mindok_! Such an honour was only reserved in the cult for dragon priests, or others who had done the dragons a great service. He wondered what word they had chosen for him. Oh, it was almost too much to bear, and Kota felt himself become faint before the excitement brought him back. He could barely resist literally jumping up and down. 

"Oh, Zinmidrotkrein. _Daa los an lot ziin_!" He cried, half spinning around as Iilah looked at him with glee, and Zinmidrotkrein with a weary kindness and understanding.  _This is a great honour!_

"As I said; it is more than you deserve. Now, we will name you." 

And there was a pause, as the two dragons shifted until Kota was stood between them and father and daughter faced each other. Each took a deep breath, and in an every so slightly unbalanced way, they Shouted together, with Kota stood directly in the crossover. 

"Dovkiirkaal." They Shouted and at first little happened, other than a force pushing at Kota from either side. Then, it came again-- _Dov-Kiir-Kaal! --_ and he stumbled, feeling a surge in his chest. Then it came again and again and again, battering him from every side until something deep within him spiked painfully and expanded, growing bigger and bigger like he was breathing in more than his lungs or chest could take, before there was a click Kota could almost hear and, with the most satisfying sensation, the expansion vanished and left him feeling stronger, more powerful, more... draconic, if that made sense. Somewhere between his shoulder blades, there was the slightest of itches, but other than that, he felt refreshed and new. Dov-Kiir-Kaal. Dovkiirkaal. He said it himself, testing the newfound weight it carried, and he found that he liked it, very much so. Dov meaning dragon, obviously; Kiir meaning child; Kaal meaning esteemed guardian, or champion, or even 'that which will stand for a cause', or at a reach, paladin. Together, it was 'dragon-child-guard'.  

Three words. He'd only been expecting one, as was standard for every other human or mer ever officially given a name in the dragon tongue. It made him feel excited and nervous all at once, like he was breaking a rule. He felt special. Kota looked up at Zinmidrotkrein, who was sat on his haunches with his head high in the air but looking down at him, too. Iilah came up behind him and pushed her nose underneath his palm, like attention-seeking dogs would do, before wrapping a protective wing around him and setting her head down upon Kota's own. 

"Humans and elves may still call you Kota, but everything else-- the daedra, aedra, dragons-- they will know your true name, your soul's name. Kota will forever be distant to you-- like the name of a friend." 

"I don't mind." Kota said, and it was true. For now, he would refer to himself as Kota, but who knew? Maybe one day, he would be known completely by his _dov-mindok._ Maybe one day, Kota would be so distant that he would forget the name entirely. His name meant 'child of good fortune' in ayleid language, that much he knew. It no longer suited him, he thought, but the one he had been given just then struck a chord within his mind, heart and soul. 

Iilah broke the comfortable silence that came afterwards, as Kota turned and relit the fire, which had been put out by the ceremony. 

"I'm tired, now. Can we sleep, father?"

"Of course you may sleep, princess of mine; and Dovkiirkaal, please; you are no simple visitor here. This is your home, should you have it, as much as it is mine or Iilahiizlok's home. We are your _dov fron_ , now. Father, sibling, sister, daughter-- whatever you call us, you are family."

"It would do me great happiness to accept." Kota began but Zinmidrotkrein inturrupted. 

"There is no need for the formalities, now. You are not our subject, you are our friend, brother, son, _fron."_

"It might take me a while to get used to that," Kota said, and Iilah chuckled sleepily as she sat next to him by the fire, waiting, "but thank you. This means so much. It means so much that I can't begin to tell you how much it means." 

"I know it does." Zinmidrotkrein said, before turning away and going to the Word Wall, to turn into a tightly bound coil surrounded by his wings, so that he may sleep. Iilah had not yet mastered that technique and so slept as Kota did-- on her stomach, with her wings stretched out in a relaxed way and her hind legs stretched out behind her. She lifted a wing for Kota to get underneath it, and he rolled out his fur bedroll to sleep on top of. His tent lay packed in a bag in the chest near the wall, but he preferred to sleep like this. Iilah may eventually enjoy curling into a ball, and so he may use his tent in the future as she curled around him, but right now he slept under the graceful, welcoming wing of his new sister, and under the watchful, vigilant eyes of his new father. Thus, Kota Kuldovah, Dragon Son, Dovkiirkaal, slept for the first time under his new name, and his new family slept alongside him. 

Meanwhile, halfway across Tamriel in a siege encampment surrounding the Imperial City, a man in metallic green robes and a mask that made all who looked at him turn away in respect and fear in equal measure, looked up at the sky, which was only just beginning to fade. He then looked towards Skyrim, and narrowed his eyes, before turning away and summoning a delegate to fetch his entourage and his new draconic companion, Unahzaalyoljot. They rode for Skyrim in the morning; Miraak left Alundril in charge, as he trusted her to mop up the rest of the Empire and the Thalmor, and to follow his instructions regarding the Emperor. It would take weeks, but he cared little; they would go to Skyrim, find this so called 'Dovkiirkaal', and with any luck, it wouldn't be the dragonborn the white robed priest Helgi Paleblood had told him about in her letter.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QxjJG9lnQa4

_The sky was dark and rattled with stars, but he felt safe._

_A great power swam in his chest, but it was comfortable. He felt different-- he was much taller than he felt he should have been-- so he looked down, and discovered that he was instead a she. Black ornate robes lined with white fur kept her warm against the night, so she could gaze upwards at Secunda and the beautiful blue-green aurora gracing the sky scattered with scars, like someone had sprinkled glowing residue over a black sheet._

_It was a few moments before she realised she was singing. It was quiet but it held such unspeakable power that she feared what would happen if she sang louder, by any fraction. As she tried to change the song, she found she couldn't and furthermore realised she was just spectating in a familiar body, with a familiar soul. The same soul, perhaps? No, because the host soul was wiser, older, and understood things he didn't, and things were back to normal._

_The song was haunting, beautiful, and in a language he didn't understand._

_She began to hum and he noticed clouds begin to creep in, bringing snow and rain. He sighed, because the beautiful sight of the night sky would soon be covered, but then she started to sing again in that eerie voice that surely must have carried for miles around despite how hushed a whisper she sang in. The clouds dispersed, banished, for now, and he understood._

_He tried to stand up, but couldn't. Instead, he decided to make himself at home, to relax, and to just kind of be one with this host while she sang to the sky to keep it clear of clouds, and they became one and the same entity again. If he just sat back and let her hold the reins, he had a feeling it would be better-- like a good book._

_There they sat together, both a she, for what seemed like hours. At some point she became chilly, and sighed before standing up and brushing herself off, and her voice became silent. Even so, no clouds came; it seemed to be that they'd been staved off for now. She turned and observed the surroundings, carefully taking it all in; she had been sat atop a roof of a large manor, located somewhere above Lake Ilinalta._

_The waters below reflected the light from the stars, aurora and moons like a mirror. She smiled, but her smile soon faded._

_At the other side of the lake, an army of orange torches waved and danced in the night._

_The Wild Hunt? She thought, but dismissed it. There were far, far too many for that._

_Had the coven in Ilinalta's Deep returned with a vengeance? No. She had Azura's Star, how could they? Maybe they were bandits looking for shelter in the night. No; why would bandits go there? The wards used to keep the water out had long since faded. It must be flooded by now, she thought._

_Wisps, warped by some foul magic or daedra? No, impossible. Wisps were never found this far south-east in her experience, which was vast and almost omniscient._

_She whispered again to herself and immediately the shapes became known to her. An army, not just of orange torches, but of men and women, all in armour and all up in arms. Another careful whisper and while the trees around her shuddered and someone in the house below turned uncomfortably in their sleep, she knew that they were the last vestiges of Imperial soldiers and loyalists left in Skyrim. Her thoughts turned to her husband, to her children, and lastly to herself. It was no coincidence that these forces were amassing suddenly in the middle of the night, barely a mile away from her home._

_He tried to wake up but he couldn't. He didn't feel safe any more._

_A ball of purple light, all consuming, appeared in her palm and as she let it fly into the air, a long bow streaming with the lights of Oblivion appeared before her and bound arrows delivered themselves to a spectral quiver strapped to her back. She knocked a single arrow, fell to one knee, and looked carefully at her target. There were so many, and so packed, she would hit one of them. Death and carnage foretold themselves for the night, and as she raised her arrow to the sky and loosed it, her fate was solidified and she knew it._

_She felt the thud in her bones and knew that the arrow had hit and killed someone immediately, the two daedric points piercing their chest and their heart. She said a quick prayer to the Nine, asking for forgiveness for the following carnage, and as a warhorn blew loudly and melodic against the night sky, she stamped her foot several times on the roof below her to wake everyone up. It worked, and she heard shouting and clattering, muffled through the wood of the home it had taken her so long to build, as boats laden with angry, vengeful soldiers made their way into the river, propelled by strong men and women. Her husband, housecarl and the rest of her honorary warrior family were there at the shorefront to meet the soldiers, and screams and roars and loud horrors of all kinds suddenly filled the night. The clouds began to seep in, but the next time she opened her mouth, it was to call for help. She narrowly avoided an arrow, the feathers cutting her across the bridge of her nose, and she said in a normal, acceptable voice;_

_"Odahviing. Paarthurnaax." Then, almost hopeful, "Miraak?"_

_Within seconds the sky was rumbling both with thunder and the horrifying crows and callings of two dragons; one crimson red, the colour of rubies soaked in blood, and the other so pale it almost glowed in the moonlight. Its wings were tattered, some of its teeth were gone, but it was just as furious as the crimson dragon._ _They swung down together out the sky and tore and burned as they went._

_Miraak did not appear._

_She heard shouts and calls of alarm behind her and she span, only to have a steel arrow embed itself in her chest. She began to heal immediately and she tore it out with fury, trying to focus on where it had come from, but then another and another slammed into her trunk. She staggered backwards, pulling both arrows out as she did so, and healed her wounds as quickly as she could. Three new scars, and three incessant pains in her chest that would not go away for a short while._

_She uttered a new word, and became spectral. She leapt bravely off the roof and landed, rolling expertly, before she became human again. She then saw a solider, a Thalmor battlemage, hurl magick fire at the thatched roof of her home. She gasped and all the winds around her howled as she growled, sending loose a spectral arrow that found its home deep within the spell caster's eye. He fell, as did others around her. She knew some of her warrior family had already fallen but some still stood, bravely, fighting against an impossible foe. Her husband still lived, she knew this. Where were the children? Safe, she hoped, as the house already beginning to burn._

_She dismissed her bow, her fear and panic mounting, and instead she threw two new orbs into the air. Then, dropping from the sky, came the biggest spectral scythe to have ever graced Tamriel. A long etched rod and a blade the size of a person streamed purple smoke and black light into the air._

_She swung it around her head and became death._

_All around her men and women and elves fell to her blade, but arrows and spells still knocked into her hard. Eventually, when blood tainted her spit and she could feel the throes of her last breaths, she dismissed her scythe and then cast the most impressive healing spell she knew; it revitalised her, and even made one wrinkle on her worry-lined forehead disappear. She quietly summoned her scythe again and began, renewed, this time carving her way to her husband. She found him battling ten Imperials with ease, but he was severely wounded, so she destroyed the aggressors with one flick of her wrist and quickly knelt by her husband, panic tainting her tongue. Golden light enveloped her hands as the scythe disappeared again, and she ignored the steel arrows and fire spells thudding into her back as she brought her husband back, waving her hands up and around his body to heal him, wholly. Then, he helped her to her feet, and she did the spell for herself once more._

_Her husband vanished into the fray again and the scythe, gentle and light in her hands, became known to the soldiers once more. Her home, her dearest home, was becoming ash, but she wasn't as worried about that as maybe she should've been at that point. Then, she realised, underneath the shouts and the yelling and the carnage, that there was screaming coming from within the house._

_Her children. Inside. Aflame!_

_She screamed, then, a sound of violent and deep fury and everywhere it was heard-- deep in the Black Marsh, a baby awoke and began to cry. Further afield, in the Summerset Isles, those to the north swung their heads around, trying to see who had screamed, but they would find nobody._

_Before her, heads were no more as the brains and souls within them simply gave up and decided to go out with a bang. Ears rang, and those nearby her but not before her went flying some considerable distance, and if they weren't dead before they hit the floor, they certainly were when they finally touched soil again. Blood hissed on the flames, but nothing could drown out the sounds of her children inside her home, screaming, crying, sobbing, roaring for help._

_Both she and her husband ran to the door, but a beam fell before them. A nod of agreement, and a quick but passionate kiss, and her husband had vanished through the flames to retrieve the children. As she stood with her back to the blaze, her robes caught fire to reveal the armour beneath, plated in dragonbone and scale. She tore the remainders off, and waved a hand before her face-- there, suddenly, was an ancient mask made out of ebony, that glowed red and vicious. The scythe vanished, and she crossed her arms before her chest before throwing them outwards. She took a deep breath as flame wreathed her fingers, and then, she said quietly;_

_"Yol. Toor. Shul."_

_And the soldiers knew pain and death and suffering. She was a fire-wraith now-- no, worse. She was a dragon. But that's already what she was, wasn't it?_

_Behind her, she heard her husband cry out, and she stopped casting the spells to turn. He carried three children in his arms, all of them dead and burned beyond recognition. Only their burned amulets-- one with emerald, one with ruby, one with sapphire-- even identified them at all. But where was the fourth? The one with the diamond amulet. The youngest of them all, barely four months old. He was small, and weak, and was probably the same charcoal stock as the house by now._

_She sobbed and covered her mouth; they were not in immediate danger, as the Imperial forces had weakened and momentarily retreated, but they would be back soon. Quickly, she and her wounded husband took them behind the house, and using her magic, she carved them each a miniature barrow deep within the rock. The bodies were placed within, with flowers from the garden and small tokens of love from both mother and father. These children were not their own, but the orphans of Skyrim, and even so both of the warriors loved them fiercely._

_She sealed their tombs and pressed her handprint into the smooth rock beside each new cobbled wall. The rock melted and burned, scorching. Her husband did the same, using his own scant magic to imprint his hand next to his wife's. Then, as the two lovers turned to each other, she finally noticed how hurt he was-- he was no different than a dragon's victim. Her hands rose, the golden light already on her fingers, but her husband shook his head and tears filled his icy blue eyes. Her eyes, too, filled with tears, but she understood, because even know her heart felt like it was going to shatter. He was so close to death and to reuniting with his children in Sovngarde; why should she keep him from their kin?_

_They kissed one final, passionate time, brushing each other's tears away, and he died in her arms. She made a barrow for him, too, and buried him with flowers and a token of her love. She sealed the barrow, and put her hand there. Then, she ran as quickly as she could to where she suspected the forces were rallying, and was correct. She yelled at them, as loud as she could, and she became a dragon once more. Odahviing and Paarthurnaax had long since left, called home by the Greybeards who knew the same thing that she knew; that she would lose this fight._

_A mage covenant nearby began draining her magic while archers loosed arrows into her, clearly enchanted, as they got through her armour. One hand held the healing spells while she let loose deluges of fire in the other. She shouted to heavens and hell, summoning daedra left and right, but she knew it was little use. She only wanted to destroy as many of these black-hearted, greedy, weak vermin as she possibly could._

_Soon, as she was preoccupied with healing herself while hiding behind a tree, a master high-elf battlemage surprised her and cut her with a sword imbued with magicka siphoning properties. She shouted at him, but he somehow withstood her yell, and she realised it was because he had cut her throat with the sword and that she hadn't made any noise at all. Despite living her recent life in silence, this scared her. It horrified her._

_He picked her up and held her to him, almost gentle, one arm beneath her knees while the other held her to his chest. Her head lolled back, as she felt herself weakening. Tears streamed down her soot and bloodstained face. She looked at the elf, and his eyes gleamed like rubies in the night. Despite his kind touch, he wore no expression, but she croaked gently and told him he was terrible at hiding his emotions. It was the first time she had spoken to anyone not of her family for years._

_"You are an honourable warrior." He said. "An inspired mage. And you are part high-elf. The others have no shame, but it saddens me to do this."_

_"What does it matter how it makes you feel?" S_ _he said, every word an effort, coughing and sobbing, her nose running and tears making defined but dark rivers on her dark skin. She could feel the drums and clouds of Sovngarde calling her again. She couldn't wait to see her dearest children, her husband, her warrior family again. Oh, poor Marcurio. She was on her way."Here you are. You're doing it."_

_"I would like to tell you, before you die. Your youngest is safe. I have taken him far from here."_

_"When did you take him?" She said, horrified, but at peace all at once. The hope that her youngest child, still only a few months old, was still alive at all was a wonderful feeling, and she couldn't help but smile._

_"Five hours ago, at sundown. He will be safe with me."_

_The relief she felt at a strange high elf kidnapping her son at sunset five hours before was irresponsible. She closed her eyes and sighed, the smile fading, before her eyes opened once more to gaze at the sky once more._

_Clouds swirled above, and snow was falling in heavy flakes, like even Kyne was crying at this cold, dishonorable murder. Sunrise was here, because the clouds were peachy pink. Oh, she would miss the changes of the clouds when she was in Sovngarde._

_She did not feel anything when they put her head on a charred woodcutting block. She took a breath and gave herself funeral rites even as the elven greatsword, wielded by the kind one, fell upon her neck._

_In Korric's dying breath, her gentle voice echoed gently across Tamriel._

_Suddenly Kota was seperate, looking down at the host soul's body. It was a jarring transition but he felt relieved that his neck was still in once piece. He looked down, and if he had a stomach at that moment he would have felt it turn wildly. There, the Last Dragonborn Korric lay, her body encased in powerful armour. She had arrows sticking out of every part of her body, and her head was rolling gently down the hill. Nobody bothered to stop it, and it rolled into Lake Ilinalta. It floated, bobbed, and then sank to be picked clean by slaughterfish._

_The body stayed where it was, and the army dispersed. Only the kind one remained, but he was gone by the time the house had burned buto the stone foundations._

_Kota looked around, and realised that there was still the presence of the second soul. He had assumed it was Korric's, but apparently not. He turned his head, and saw a faint outline of another spectre in the air beside him, gazing down at Korric's body. Then, the spectre turned to him, and Kota knew immediately Miraak's mask was looking back at him._

_____________________________

Kota woke up with a start, and in a cold sweat. It was almost dawn, and damp filled the air but Iilah kept him warm and dry. His dovbriinah stirred, and lifted her head to look at him. She tilted her head, as if to as if he was alright, and he responded by nodding and waving his hand, as if dismissing her worries and troubles. She wasn't convinced and that was obvious, but she had her answer and she was still tired. She laid her head back down and huffed some, before falling asleep easily. He wanted to continue to sleep, also, so he relit the fire quietly and made himself comfortable again, sinking back into a much lighter, dreamless and controllable sleep than what he'd just been subjected to. But he didn't forget what he'd seen, not for a long time indeed, and neither would the man whom he'd shared his dream with.

 ___

 

Miraak woke with a start. It was still dark-- the northern Cyrodilic borders were blocked with a violent snowstorm, and so they'd had to detour around to High Rock to enter through The Reach, it it would take longer for the sun to reach them here. He sat up on the temporary cot, took a moment to make sense of his dream, before he swung his legs over the side and got dressed back into his robes. He felt renewed, with more urgency; not only had he and this new dragonborn shared a dream, they had shared a specific dream about the night of Korric's death. And, perhaps the most important of all the points, he knew the face of the New Dragonborn. With horrific scars and eyes burning bright as coals, he was the spitting image of his mother. 

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

When Kota awoke, Iilah and Zinmidrotkrein were already awake, and were tearing into some deer that Zinmidrotkrein had already caught. Kota sat up, rubbed his face free from sleep, and made his way over. Zinmidrot tosses a small deer calf to him, which Kota quickly butchered the same way he'd done to the flank of the deer yesterday, and began to cook it over the fire, which Zinmidrotkrein had lit just as Kota was awakening. Kota ate quietly, subdued by his dream-- or rather his nightmare. What did it mean? Why did he see that, in such detail? He continued to eat slowly, thinking on what he saw, and trying to piece everything together. At some point, when he'd finished and was just sitting calmly while looking over the valley below, Iilah plodded over and put her head on his shoulder.

"You do not seem happy this morning, Dovkiirkaal. I felt you stir early in the morning-- did you dream?" She asked, and Kota scratched her under the chin. Already, she was less receptive; oh, how fast dragon children grew.

"Yes, Iilah, I dreamt." He replied and this time it was Zinmidrotkrein's turn; the elder dragon came around to sit beside Kota, taking up a sentinel spot overlooking the valley.

"What did you dream of, fron?" Zinmidrotkrein asked, and Kota turned to him with mouth half open, ready to respond, but then he hesitated. He wasn't sure that it was something he wanted to share. Iilah then purred, a low content rumble, and it reminded him that they were family now, and that it was the least he could do to be honest.

"I dreamt I was Korric, on the last night of her life. I was there with her right up until the end; it was very confusing, and slightly disturbing. Miraak was there, too, right at the end, but that must have been my imagination." He said, and Zinmidrotkrein took in a deep breath while Iilah looked to her father, perplexed.

"I felt your inner soul reaching out as you slept, Dovkiirkaal. You were frightened-- strongly connected, geh?" Kota merely nodded, not feeling the need to respond so quickly. Zinmidrotkrein continued onwards. "Normal dreams among your kind do not share that connection. Joore may relive memories through their own minds, but they will always be warped, and from their own lifetimes. The only way you could have been so strongly connected was through blood-- kindred souls." Kota himself sighed then, too, as the final piece clicked. Instead of sudden euphoria, the kind he had always thought he would feel at the time he discovered the identy of his parents, he felt as though a great burden had been placed atop his shoulders.

Korric, the Last Dragonborn, was his mother. How? The man she'd called her husband in the dream was a Nord, and he always thought he was half high-elf, half redguard. Ah, but he was paler than other redguards he'd met. It not only felt like a burden, but it frustrated him. In his mind, he'd always wanted to go on a great Quest across Tamriel, dig through archives of the old world before Miraak to find some miniscule trace of his name, his family, before tracking down both his mother and father who would embrace him, and apologise, and tell him that they'd given him away but had regretted it fiercly. He had always wanted a happy ending, but he hadn't got one. No matter who Kota's father was, he was probably dead, as was his mother. Oh, but then there was the issue of the amulet-- the one that Korric had specified in the dream. The golden amulet with a diamond embedded in the metal. He got up, suddenly, and as he made his way towards the ancient chest that held his personal belongings and called to Zinmidrotkrein as he went.

"True, I suppose, but how does that explain Miraak? He wasn't related to Korric. He couldn't have been-- he was hundreds of generations older than her. Five eras separated them. And-- and in the dream, she said her youngest child had a gold-diamond amulet. I don't think I-- At least, I'm sure I don't-- how could I be?"

Somewhere deep inside, he didn't want Korric to be his mother; that way, if he was just a spontaneous occurrence, there was still the possibility of being reunited with his parents. There was still the possibility of having a reunion with his blood family, if it existed. He desperately wanted that. No other mortal thing he had ever met had given him the affection he saw in other people, the affection he craved so wildly, and once upon a time he had been told that every good parent loves its child. He could never think of his parents as being anything but good, even if he'd been told he was abandoned. So a long time ago when he was still a child, he had convinced himself that, not only were his parents still alive, they would welcome him back with open arms. Already, at age five, he had forgiven them for leaving him behind.

He threw open the chest and began rummaging through his bag. When he found nothing, he turned triumphant to Zinmidrotkrein, with just a sliver of hope that his dream hadn't been true, but when he saw the expression of Zinmidrotkrein's face, Kota withered. His new father pitied him, and Kota knew that it was a certainly that Korric was his mother, whether he had the amulet or not. He hunched, all energy gone from him, and Zinmidrotkrein sighed. Iilah looked on, confused, before she decided to turn away and back to her unfinished deer carcass. 

"You are her son, Dovkiirkaal. She is dead, but you are not. You are the Last Dragonborn now." Zinmidrotkrein said carefully, and Kota felt like crying. All he'd ever wanted was a warm and true embrace from his mother, or father, or anyone. He'd wanted to be embraced and to be told that he was important, and loved, and cared for. His mother was dead, though, and so was his father, and while his new family might give him the support he needed, they weren't like him. Nobody was. He was too much of a dragon for men and mer to be comfortable with him, and too much of a mortal for dragons to truly consider him as one of their own. 

He sat down and put his face in his hands. Iilah sauntered over, her scaled belly full of venison, and she put her head on his shoulder as she always did. Zinmidrotkrein continued to talk. 

"As for how Miraak was there, I do not know. But there is no doubt in it; it was not your imagination. As your spirit, your mind's eye, was there-- so was his. Your face is known to him know, and all of your scars, and Miraak has a long memory. Nothing can keep you from him now."

"What will Miraak do to Dovkiirkaal when he finds him?" Iilah asked quietly, concern fueling her question. Zinmidrotkrein nuzzled her face, even as it was directly next to Kota's, and purred with her. 

"Hopefully, Miraak will not kill him. He is clever-- he knows fate is not easily bargained with. Should he kill this one prematurely, another Dovahkiin will spring up somewhere. Such is the way of things." 

"'Prematurely'?" Kota questioned before he remembered the legends. The two dragonborn were destined to battle on an alternate plane, far away from Nirn, and one of them would die. If Miraak were to kill him now, the legend would go unfulfilled, and someone else would rise to take husband place until it went the way is was prophesied to go. Kota sighed as Zinmidrotkrein continued to speak. 

"Perhaps Miraak has no intention of killing him at all. Two dovahkiin-- a formidable force, no? Enough to exterminate the Empire and any who dare to oppose the New Cult. While the prophecy may have to be fulfilled, it may be hundreds of years before that happens. Miraak will likely be thinking of everything."

"Is he coming here?" Iilah asked and Zinmidrotkrein huffed through his nose, his breath warm and smelling rank and sour, like raw meat left in the hot outdoors. 

"He would be stupid not to. He likely heard us rename you, since your souls are somewhat connected-- if he didn't come immediately, I would declare him an idiot, which Miraak certainly is not."

"What do we do?" Kota asked, and Zinmidrotkrein shook his great head side to side as if shaking off water before replying.

"We wait." Zinmidrotkrein said, before backing off and beating his wings, hauling himself into the air with great effort. Iilah looked up after him and sighed, too. 

"When can I fly, Dovkiirkaal?" 

"After you shed your skin for the first time. Your wing membranes are very weak right now and by then your muscles ought to have developed properly. Right now, you shouldn't try to do anything more than glide short distances." Kota said, running his hand along her horse-like snout, and his fingers hovered just over he nostrils as she snorted, belligerence invading her manner. "Don't argue, Iilah. If you're impatient now, you may never fly, and what is a dragon without her wings?" 

"You." She said curtly, looking him straight in the face with those piercing tropical green eyes of hers. Kota struggled for something to say, and in the end he found nothing that he could argue against. She was right. 

"Still. Don't go flying." Kota said, as stern as he could bear to be toward her. He also let his hand fall down onto her nose, and applied pressure-- not much, but enough. She withstood it for a few seconds before she bowed her head and snorted, turning away to sharpen her claws on a nearby pillar. 

Kota settled down to prepare to do another one of the sketches of his surroundings. Within a few days, he supposed he would be an expert at drawing landscapes. He opened up his lovely notebook, pulled out his charquil, and started to sketch. Eventually, about halfway through, he got bored and looked for something else to draw. He decided that he'd draw Iilah, standing up on her hind legs with her wings against the pillar. 

As he drew the basic shapes and started to work on detailing the wings, he realised just how uncharacteristically big Iilahiizlok's wings were in proportion to her body. He'd assumed that the rest of her would grow accordingly and eventually her shape would match the general measurements of most other dragons; however, her wings has kept growing at the same--no, a faster rate than the rest of her was. A single one of her wings was bigger than her entire body, tail included, by about six feet. That doubled up to give her a wingspan that was nearly triple her length, which was very abnormal indeed. As he continued to focus on her wings, he tried to imagine what it would be like if he himself had the wings of a dragon, or even a bird. How big would his wings be? Would would they look like? Would he have five long fingers, between which would be strung the membrane that would send him soaring, or would his finger take the form of massive feathers, splayed like an eagle's against the wind, each breeze passing over them and under them, weaving through. What colour would his wings be? He imagined bright red scales like glittering rubies coating the new limbs that would stretch behind his back, with a rich crimson membrane. He imagined tawny dappled feathers like a barn owl; deep black like a crow; white like a snow owl. Whatever they would look like, he wanted them to be breathtaking, captivating, and wonderful. He thought about it for a moment longer and decided that he would prefer dragon wings, and he stayed engrossed in his own imagination, picturing the colours he would cast across the clouds at sunset as the beams reflected off of his scales.

At some point he became aware of what he was doing in the real world. He'd turned the page over and had drawn a self-portrait-- his human arm was there and his dwarven arm was gone, simply a short stub beneath his shoulder. He wore no clothes (but the drawing stopped at the waist), and from his bare back extended two massive dragon wings many times bigger each than he was, detailed with talons and shimmering membrane. His eyes had changed-- they were framed by little circular scales and leathery skin, and he was scarless, and both eyes were wide, wide open, with a severely narrow slit as the pupil. 

He checked his face to see if somehow his wish has become manifest, but the taut stretch of his skin was still present, and the puffed up bits where he'd been burned were still there. His hopes dashed, he instead closed the book and put it and the charquil away, resigning himself to meditation as he stared out over the valley, and to the temple on the other side. Right there, at the top of the hill, was an ancient structure he'd never been to before. He was curious, but not curious enough.

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and forced himself and his hind to be calm. Time passed unchecked as he meditated, going quickly as he lapsed into a strange, dreamlike state. It would've been nice if he could've stayed that way until dinner, but he was interrupted by a call from somewhere down below. A human call. A human call that rallied upwards into multiple human calls, and that was accompanied by heavy hoof-falls of a heavier horse and the clatter and hisses of weapons being drawn and basked against shields. Was there a fight going on? Kota opened his eyes and looked down, before he realised that the group of about fifteen were swinging around to go up the path to the eyrie. Kota leapt to his feet as his heart faltered-- he looked around and while Zinmidrotkrein was nowhere to be seen, Iilahiizlok was present and she had heard the cry too. She leapt from her position where she was reading the word wall and bounded over to him, becoming a barrier of warm scales and big teeth.  

As the group neared the top, Kota heard the buffeting of wings and felt the shockwaves of a dragon landing behind them. 

"Zinmidro--" he began as he whirled around, but then the contents of his mouth and chest plummeted into a deep pit of despair. Zinmidrotkrein was nowhere to be seen-- instead, a huge dragon the likes of which he'd never see before seethed almost silently, its face mere metres away from Kota's. It really was ginormous-- thrice the size of Zinmidrotkrein, with hulking shoulders and wings it struggled to keep under control, because they were like huge billowing tents that caught the wind. It's scales were so dark that they might've been black, but upon closer inspection, Kota saw that they were green. Its eyes flashed bright freezing blue, the slit as thin as a needle, and the teeth in the maw were easily the size of his entire forearm, hand not included. Its breath was hot, hotter than Zinmidrotkrein's, and was sweet with the smell of decay and death, with hints of both fire and mould. It looked at him with such fury that he was sure that he was about to suffer a heart attack-- his rapidly beating heart must've been about to give out, or be poisoned by the terror running through him without control. How could a dragon possibly be so huge, so dark, so horrifyingly angry? 

A figure sat on its neck. Kota froze, save for his tremors-- the figure was tall, broad-shouldered, and had a sickly looking sword strapped to his side. He wore dull green robes decorated in gold, with a familiar mask that struck dread through ever sinew and thread of him like a bard strummed a lute. 

Kota couldn't bring himself the even think the name he connected to this figure. The figure slid off of the dragon's neck as Kota tried to swallow his fear. The figure slowly walked towards him, taking deliberately large but painfully slow steps, and Kota wanted to run away. Iilahiizlok had since turned around and had frozen, her blood telling her the identity of the man she was looking at. 

Miraak stopped inches away from Kota. Up close, the man was huge-- at least one foot taller than Kota, and Kota was by no means short. Miraak regarded Koya silently, taking in every last tiny detail. Finally, after an aching silence, a voice came through the mask. 

"You look just like her." Miraak said and before Kota could do anything to respond, Miraak swung his fist up and punched Kota in the face so hard that Kota was knocked out immediately. 


End file.
